


To Greet the Spring

by Natassia74



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 08, Angst and Humor, F/M, For most characters, Jaime and Jon work together, Kind of a Happy Ending, Starts from 803
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-04-23 10:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 74,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natassia74/pseuds/Natassia74
Summary: Undead, dragonfire, and the Lannister brothers fighting for the Starks.The world really was going to hell....An alternative season 8, in which I try to rework episodes 3-6.Jaime is neither an addict nor self-destructively depressed.Jon's script is not limited to a 3-option dialogue wheel.Dany does not randomly incinerate fleeing civilians.Bran does something useful.Cersei leaves her balcony.Tyrion does not make a single cock joke (well, maybe one) or kiss a chair.





	1. Episode 803 - The Long Night - Part 1 of 2

**Author's Note:**

> Starting with episode 803, this is my attempt to rewrite the final season in a way that makes a kind of sense (at least to me). I've tried to keep both the number of episodes, and the canon where possible. Generally, if I haven't changed something from the show, then its safe to assume it remains the same. However, the 'butterfly effect' means that, as the episodes progress, the changes get greater and greater. 
> 
> The is a multi PoV fic, with the major PoVs being Jaime, Jon, Brienne, Sansa, Arya and (to a lesser degree) Jorah. Others show up where necessary. The PoV jumping is particularly noticeable in the first two chapters, as I try to give them a disjointed, battle-like feel, with different things happening in different places and no one having any real idea what is going so.

**EPISODE 8X03 - THE LONG NIGHT - PART 1**

 

**JAIME**

**Winterfell - outside the gates**

 

The battle strategy was fucked.

It was so fucked it barely warranted the word ‘strategy'. More,  _gamble._ Or _suicide._

Jaime had told Tyrion as much when they had discussed it over a watered down ale in a shabby tent beneath Winterfell's mouldering walls a few days ago. 

"Last time I checked, marching your army outside the walls to fight a numerically superior force was not a first order plan," he'd explained. 

Tyrion had taken a long drink and grimaced - "dreadful” - and then explained the limited alternatives.  “Forget ‘first order’, we're down to ‘last ditch’.  We can't withstand a siege.  We have to eat, and shit, and burn fuel to stay alive, while the army of the dead can stand there and stare at us till we freeze our balls off.  We have to bring it on, or we die.  Jon’s plan will bring it on.  Probably.  I suppose you have a better way?"

"Not yet, but I just got here!" Jamie had protested, taking another sip of the tasteless swill. "Also, I usually delegate the planning part, and stick with improvisation.  But I do think they're taking advice from mainly the wrong people".

"You have others in mind?"

"Well, I happen to know a bit about sieges, having actually attended a couple.  And I imagine that cock-less wonder who leads the unsullied has led a force in the field a time or two as well.  Fuck, even Mormont got some practical experience at Pyke. Shouldn’t we _be_ the War Council, or at least sit on it?”

"The reason  _you_ don't sit on it _,_ dear brother, should be obvious even to you,"  Tyrion replied.  "But the others? You may have a point." 

They had then finished their drinks and wiled away the night reminiscing about days gone by and trying not to think about their impending deaths. 

But Tyrion had taken Jaime's suggestions on board.  

Soon after, Snow and the Onion Knight had approached Jaime as he wandered the battlements, and told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to make himself more useful.  An introduction to Grey Worm had followed, and together he and the sullen unsullied had set to work reshaping the external defenses (serviceable, but amateur) into something resembling a professional engagement area.  The northmen had grumbled about their ‘foreign’ taskmasters, but in a short time, and under some strict direction, they had thoroughly cleared the area surrounding the castle and filled it with rubble, barriers and pits.

Some idiot had put the artillery out in front of the infantry lines, but Grey Worm had it moved behind the defensive barriers, and where possible behind the walls.  Granted, it was an open question how much good trebuchets would do against a legion of the dead, no matter where they were placed, but a few well aimed projectiles should at least slow the bastards down until they got a taste of dragonfire.

 _Dragonfire._ _Undead, dragonfire, and the Lannister brothers fighting for the Starks._ _The world really is going to hell._

Now, as he stood on the front lines of the Battle for Winterfell, staring a literal army of death in the face, Jaime realised he had been mistaken. They weren’t going to hell.  Hell was coming to them.

And he'd _chosen_ to be here to meet it.  He really was the stupidest Lannister. 

Mere hundreds of meters away now and advancing quickly was the undead horde.  A mass of shuffling legs and squirming limbs, endless in number, and apparently completely undeterred by the barrage of fire and rubble and arrows being sent their way. 

The sounds of battle rang through the air.  Jaime could just make out the song of the Dothraki riders, a whirling chant filled with the promise of violence.  Their flanking charges were driving at both sides of the mass.  Inevitably, some men fell, and their screams, and those of their terrified horses, joined the cacophony.

The soldiers behind Jaime were shuffling, praying to various Gods and whimpering.  Some were belatedly emptying their bladders and bowels, and the stench of human excrement mixed with that of burning skin and hair and the rotting stink of the dead.  A well trained Lannister army this was not, but Jaime couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for these raggedly northmen with their hastily made weapons.  They were not disciplined or hardened in the way of true soldiers, yet here they were, facing an unimaginable terror in defence of their homeland.  Many, he knew, would collapse when the army of the dead fell upon them, for all the good that would do.  Others, would run.   He could hardly blame them.  But for now, they held.

Jaime made an effort to look around, to actually _see_ these men with their cold eyes, straggly beards and boiled leather armour.  He tried to think of them as sons, brothers, husbands and fathers, as individuals with personalities and dreams - albeit the simple ones of the small folk, whatever they may be.  Doing so sparked an unpleasant ache in his gut.  

This morose contemplation of the lives of his fellow soldiers was a relatively new thing for Jaime, and he wasn't sure he liked it.  He'd always cared about his men's welfare in an abstract kind of way, as numbers in a book and boots on the ground - good boots, of course, and good armour. He'd ensured they had never lacked for provisions or supplies, and  generally avoided the kind of tactics that resulted in wanton loss of life.  _Soldiers are resources_ , his father had told him, and _we do not waste resources_.  But never, in all those years as commander of the Lannister forces, had Jaime actually given much thought to his men as individuals.  With the possible exception of a few officers, many of whom were relatives, he couldn't even picture one man's face.

 _I'm not that man anymore._ That's what he'd told the cripple.  

 _The boy I crippled_.  

But if he wasn't that man anymore, who the hell was he?

The dull ache in his stomach became a burning agony as his gaze finally fell on the woman to this left. Ser Brienne stood beside him, strong and steady, Oathkeeper gripped in her hands.  Her helmet obscured most of her face, but he could make out her nerves in the grim set out her mouth and the fall of her shoulders.  She was a good commander, brave and strong and more imposing than most men.  She did not consider herself very charismatic, but Jaime was convinced it was her inspiring presence that kept many men from fleeing now.  _That, and the fact that some may be reluctant to run before a woman._  Unfortunately, her presence was having the exact opposite effect on him, the protective part of him wanting to grab her, pull her away and force her to run, be safe.   Thinking about why he felt that way was even more disconcerting than pondering the fate of the men around him, so he pushed it aside.  In any case, she'd murder him where he stood if he tried it. 

 _At least if I am going to die, it would be by her sid_ e. He couldn't imagine a better way to go out. 

"Remember what you're brother said last night?  That we may live?”  She'd said to Pod and he, moments ago as they took their lines.  “I believe him!” It was a rare show of optimism from their usually practical commander. "But if I am wrong, and we die tonight, it cannot be here.  We must make it back inside the walls, protect Bran Stark.  That is our duty and our oath."

He'd rolled his eyes and nodded at the incessant focus on duty and oaths, but he had been very pleased with the ' _we'_.  They were a team, Brienne and he and, he supposed, her obnoxiously cheerful squire. It had a long time since he'd felt that camaraderie, possibly not since the days of his youth, with Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dane and the other members of the Kingsguard.  Before Aerys and Robert's War and everything else that went to shit.

Unfortunately, the memory of Brienne's inspiring words was tainted by the fact they were referring to the other part of the so-called strategy.  The second part, which was even stupider than the first, and which Jaime can barely believe he even agreed to be part of.  The second part required the bearers of the Valyrian blades- he, Snow, Mormont, Brienne, and the strange, fierce little Arya creature, to go and devote themselves to defending Bran Stark, the bait.  Apparently they were to be the Night King's executors, when, and if, they lured him in. 

“The White Walkers are particularly dangerous,"  Jon had explained at the briefing.  "But we know Valyrian steel is effective against them.  When they breach the walls, and they will, you are to retreat and guard the Godswood at all costs.  Bran is the Night King's goal, and his generals will come to aid their king.  None must be allowed to reach Bran.”

The crippled kid was being used as bait, although what made him so interesting to the Night King was not disclosed to Jaime.  Crippled and immobile, helpless, a tempting piece of meat for a predator.  

 _But what do I care?_    He had asked himself.  A small part of him, the part he tried not to dwell on these days, delighted at the knowledge that if the boy fell, his darkest secret, his greatest shame, may stay concealed forever after.

But w _hat makes you think there’s an after?_

Or so the boy had asked. But what was that meant to be? Some kind of ominous prophecy? 

"Stand your ground" Brienne bellowed beside him, bringing him back from his ill-timed daydream.  "Stand your ground!".

Jaime's attention was fully wrenched back to the field as an explosion of sickly yellow flames erupted in front of him.  The last and closest of the pitch and tar barrels on the field was ignited by arrows from above.  Burning undead and pieces of corpse flew everywhere.  And yet, they kept coming. Even the victims of the trap continued to straggle toward him, dead limbs engulfed in flames, the legless ones pulling themselves along, only to be crushed beneath the feet of others of their kin.  It was endless.

Jaime gripped Widow's Wail awkwardly in his left hand, and his shield in his right.  Everything was wrong about this.

He cast a final glance at Brienne, standing stalwart and calm beside him.  Perhaps sensing his regard she glanced sideways, and caught his eye, and they shared look of mutual regard and trust. 

 _Take care.  Survive.  We will talk soon. After._ Well, that was an upside. 

And then they turned to face the oncoming horde. 

It fell upon them, and the battle was on.  

 

**JON**

**Winterfell - the Walls**

 

"No good plan survives contact with the enemy". 

Sansa had told him that.  Or was it Tyrion?  It was typically cynical of the both of them these days. 

Still, as experienced and war weary as he was, Jon should have known as much himself.  He had survived at least two battles that were proof of that very maxim.  And yet, he'd wandered into this one with that same innocent conviction that it would all go to plan. 

It wasn’t going to plan.

"The knight king is coming," he'd told Dany, as they stood on the walls and she stared in horror at the battlefield, and the carnage unfolding below them.

"The dead are already here," she responded. Then she'd left, her words echoing in his ears.

Jon gripped the battlement walls and cursed.  The plan had been for the army to draw the wights out, and then for he and Dany to wait for the Night King to appear on his dragon ( _Her dragon!  Her dead child!_ ) , and either ambush him on his way to Bran, or join the his colleagues in protecting Bran on in the ground. But, even without the benefit of hindsight, it should have obvious to everyone at that strategy meeting that Dany was never going to stand on the Winterfell walls and watch while the hordes slaughtered her people. 

_Of course she would want to take her dragon and rain fire from above._

_She was born to reign over the battlefield from above._

Despite the deafening sounds of the battle, Jon could hear the rush of wind on dragon wings.  Drogan was taking flight, no doubt with Dany on his back. Soon they would be gone.  Jon stood still, torn, trying desperately to choose between two impossible options - stay and wait to protect Bran, or leave and either save potentially hundreds of those below, or  take out some thousands of those undead while trying.

Jon jumped as a sudden flash of searing light and heat erupted from the battlefield.  He watched the black shadow of Drogon swoop over the undead lines, leaving a trail of fiery carnage in his wake.  The army of the dead howled its rage, the living cheered their saviour, and Dany and Drogon turned around for another pass.

 _Gods damn it._ Plan or no plan, Jon couldn't let her do this alone.   

Swearing, he sprinted down across the battlements to where Rheagal stood, waiting.  The dragon was screeching, almost jumping on the spot like an eager hunting dog, longing to join his mother and brother in the fight.  He was already halfway into the air as Jon vaulted onto his back.  Together they took to the skies.  

The castle and the battlefield stretched out beneath Jon, a dark labyrinth of walls and roofs, surrounded by a flat expanse of dirt and snow.  The soldiers fighting outside the walls looked like the tiny wooden men Robb and he had played with as children.  The lines were holding well, but the writhing swarm of undead stretched nearly endlessly before them.  He knew with dread that it comprised of the corpse of every man, woman and child who had died beyond that wall, but whose body was not yet dust.

It was obvious from here that there were too many wights to ever defeat them at hand to hand combat, too many to hold back from the walls of Winterfell, and likely too many for all the armies in Westeros.  Individually they were slow, ponderous and stupid, but they could just keep coming.  Even if their defenses miraculously held against the onslaught, the corpses of the dead would rise in piles against the wall, until the still moving corpses could scramble up and over the remains of their fallen colleagues, and into the keep.  Where they would kill and add the people of Winterfell to their horde. 

It was hopeless. The men below were lost, one way or another, unless the wights were destroyed at the source.  They had to slay the Night King, and hope that his progeny would fall with him, as they had on that ill fated trip beyond the wall.  It was the only way.

And then Jon knew that he had to get back to Bran. He had to get back _n_ _ow_. 

Jon urged Rheagel to turn back, but the dragon roared in anger and defiance, his blood up.  Turning him was going to be easier said than done.

Hundreds of metres away, above the battlefield, Drogon screamed with what sounded like delight, as he swooped the undead field, leaving a road of fire in his path.  Rhaegel wanted to join him. The air was suddenly freezing. With hands nearly immobile from cold, Jon tried to gain control of his frustrated beast. 

_How does one control a defiant dragon anyway?_

And then Jon saw the source of the sudden cold, a dark shape silhouetted against a flash of lightening.   

_The other brother._

The Night King had arrived.  And he had brought with him a storm. 

 

**BRIENNE**

**_Winterfell - the Courtyard_ **

The battle had raged for what felt like hours. Brienne's hands were numb with cold and stress, while her body burned with adrenaline and exertion.  Her face was damp, although whether with sweat, or blood, she didn't know. 

Jaime and Pod remained at her side, covering the retreat of their men each other's back.  They had fought seamlessly together, the three of them.  Back to back, side to side, pulling each other from beneath trampling feet and crawling fingers and even, on one occasion, flying rocks hurled from an undead giant   Whatever else happened tonight, their bond as colleagues in arms was cemented. 

Brienne's men had held surprisingly well against the horde.  Few had run (but where would they even run to?) and many have proved effective fighters. They were, thankfully, surrounded by the corpses of the long dead, rather than the recently living.  But they couldn't hold for much longer.  The enemy was endless and relentless, and her people were tiring.  The call of retreat did not come a moment too soon.

When the plan for a feint and retreat had been touted, Brienne had wondered at its practicality, had feared it would be impossible to orchestrate when the mens' blood was up.  But when the call was finally sounded, her fears proved unfounded, and she was immeasurably relieved find it went as planned. Indeed, it was surprisingly orderly, due largely to the incredible discipline of the unsullied troops. Row after row of these marvellous soldiers opened their lines, allowed her retreating troops through, then closed ranks again. 

Brienne directed her men back, through the rows of unsullied and the open gate.   Exhausted and filthy, they stumbled along, the writhing mass of undead on their heels.   

_Too many.  Always too many._

"Brienne," Someone was calling her name.  Jaime.  His voice was firm, desperate. "There is no one left.  Come on, we have to go".  

He held his right arm out to her, his left holding his sword.   _He would grab me if he could_ she thought.  But the golden hand cannot grasp.  It did, however, appear to work well as a club.  It was covered in as much filth as the rest of him, probably more. 

She must have looked reluctant, because Jaime looked exasperated and yelled at her. "For Gods sake, woman, go, go, go."

Brienne nodded, and as the last of the stragglers came, she fell back through the otherwise impenetrable rank of unsullied and behind the gates, her two closest companions beside her.

Inside the courtyard, Davos of all people was taking command, and doing an impressive job for a man with little real combat experience.  "Man the walls, defend the walls", he was yelling at a group of confused looking teenagers.  these were fresh soldiers - boys too young or green to be sent to the front lines, women who have offered to fight, older men.  It was their job to take to the walls first.  They would throw what they could at the enemy until they closed and scaled the walls, and then retreat for the better trained soldiers.

Pod was standing in front of her, leaning on his sword and gasping for breath.  "It looks like we got their attention,"  he observed dryly.

Brienne gave him a quick appraisal, but could not see any wounds.  "Are you injured?"

"No my lady...I mean, ser.  You?"

 "Fine."

 _Jaime._ She felt a moment and panic, then spun and found him, too, in the courtyard.  He was panting more heavily than Pod, his hands by his side and head thrown back.  Other than the breathlessness he didn't took too worse for wear. 

 She reached out and grabbed his arm.  "You alright?"

 He nodded and smiled.  "One of them got me on the leg, but I'll live. Not as young as I used to be." 

Brienne squeezed his arm, hard enough for him to feel through the chain.  "You're no good to me dead.  Catch your breath before you join me on the walls."

For a moment, they stood and looked at each other.  was she imagining it, or did his gaze lower from her eyes to her lips?  Brienne actually wondered if maybe, just maybe, Jaime might kiss her.  But the moment passed.  He gave hher her that cocky half-smile and stepped back, out of the way of a couple of teenagers carrying spare arrows.

 "Yes ser.  See you on the walls," he said.

 

**JON**

**_Somewhere near Winterfell_ **

Jon squinted against the freezing sleet and tried to to focus on something.  Anything would do.  The world around him was a blur of greys and blacks and flashes of burning white.

He had had no luck finding the Night King, or what remained of Viserian, or even a way to Bran.  

 _How does one hide a dragon?_   The answer now seemed clear enough: in a storm.

He had nearly collided with Dany, which had bestowed about him the momentary relief that came with the knowledge she was alive and well, but had not really helped anything beyond that. She couldn't find the Night King either  Then Dany had disappeared again, and when he had called her name, his voice was lost to the wind. 

This plan was getting worse and worse by the moment.

A hungry desperation was filling his stomach, making his blood pump. 

 _Bran, Bran_.  He had to get to get back to Bran.

But he no idea where he was, let alone where Bran was.  He didn't know what was happening.

_How does one hide a castle?_

_You don't, you hide the seeker in a storm._

Only the incessant pull of the ground gave him any idea of his positioning, and even that was unreliable. Rhaegal twisted and turned and screeched his frustration.  

Black spots formed before Jon's eyes, and he shook his head to clear his vision.  But they didn't vanish, but remained, becoming larger, more defined, dancing black black shapes against the grey.  

Crows?

A murder of crows amid the clouds.

He wondered, briefly, if even the crows were lost, if the cursed storm had defeated even the wily birds.  But they did not seem lost, and nor did they appear afraid.  They did not flee from the dragon, but instead approached it, and flew a broad circle around them.  Rhaegal screamed his indignation, lashed at them, grateful to have something to punish for his current predicament, but they ducked and dove out of the way. One bird, a particularly bold one, flew close around Jon's head.  It's red eye shone with intelligence and awareness. 

Jon felt a sudden bolt of recognition.  _I've gone mad_ , he thought.  But he followed his instincts. 

"Bran?" he asked the crow. 

The crow blustered around his head again, screeching.  It appeared to be answering in the affirmative. 

 _Follow me_ , it seemed to say.  _Follow me._

And so he did.

He hoped it was leading him back to Winterfell, and to Bran. 

**THEON**

**_Winterfell - The Walls_ **

“Stick it with the pointy end,” Arya smirked at her sister, and then she was off.

Off to do … something.  Theon had never known what the Arya did when she wandered off, even when she was a child, but no one, other than maybe Bran, knew the nooks and crannies of Winterfell better than she.

Sansa watched her go.  Theon gave her a moment, and then grabbed her hand.

"This way, quickly," he said, and pulled her down the staircase and away from Arya.  "They're coming".

Theon led Sansa across the chaotic courtyard, to the door of the crypts.  They would seal them shortly, although whether doing so would protect the non-combatants or doom them was still an open question.  Whatever happened, Sansa was bravely resigned to her fate.  A stronger person than her Theon had never known.

His men were already standing before the crypts, arranged in a strategic circle with bows and blades and axes.  These were good men, loyal to him, although he still wasn't entirely sure why.  They were the last line of defence for the people of Winterfell.  Or the first line of defence, he supposed, if the walkers really did fly in on dragons.

With time running out, he stood on the threshold and held Sansa’s hand and thought of everything he wanted to tell her.  Unfortunately, his tongue wouldn’t cooperate.  He settled for meeting her eyes, hoping she could see what she meant to him. 

Finally, Sansa spoke.  “You should be with us, inside.”

He shook his head.  “No, we are best placed out here.  We’ll try and keep them out of the crypts, for as long as we can.  We have to trust in your brother.”

Sansa squeezed his hand. “Theon…”

“Sansa…” His chest ached, and his mouth opened, and he tried to say something but failed.  She raised her hand to quiet him and he complied.   

Slowly, Sansa reached up to undo one of the pins that held her cloak to her shoulders.  Her direwolf pin, the symbol of her house. She held it out to Theon. 

“You’re a Greyjoy, Theon, but you’re also a Stark.  Please, wear this, for me.”

Theon stared at her in shock, and pride. He hoped he wouldn't cry.  With calm, steady – beautiful – fingers, she pinned it to his chest.  Then she looked up at him with her beautiful blue eyes. 

“You’re a good man, Theon.  Thank you.  For everything.”

He continued to stare at her.  She leaned over and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Good luck, Theon of House Stark and Greyjoy.  Theon of Winterfell", she said. "I’ll see you on the other side.”

He released her hand, reluctantly, and watched as she made her way into the crypt.  Tyrion, standing at the threshold, gave him a nod, and beckoned her in.

The night was dark and full of terrors, and Theon had no idea what would happen next.  But he was sure of one thing. 

He would die before any white walker breached that door and attacked his lady.

 

 

**JORAH**

**_Winterfell - the Walls_ **

Heartsbane was no longer silver, but black, stained with whatever fouled substance the wights excreted. It had done its duty though, slicing through the creatures like they were barely corporeal.  He would have to thank the kid -  _Tarly_  - again, assuming they both survived.

He had made it back into the keep at the sound of the retreat, abandoning his poor horse to the clawing horde.  Few Dorthraki accompanied him, but many had made the choice to stay outside the walls.  The idea of dying inside a stone prison did not appeal to them.  Jorah could no longer hear their whirling war cries, and he hoped that meant the might warriors had fled, rather than that they were dead.

Standing on the walls, he scanned the skies.  It was impossible to see anything in the storm.   Great torrents of rain and ice were falling and visibility was nearly gone. It was slippery underfoot too, and they would have to be careful to maintain their balance when the battle resumed. 

Jorah had no idea where Dany was, or Drogon.  His chest clenched with fear and worry, but little could be done. He comforted himself that he would  _know_ if something had happened to her.  Surely, his world would end.

The dead were piling up at the walls, corpse on corpse, the valiant efforts of their make-shift soldiers to smother them in flame and arrows ironically speeding their climb up the walls.  Below, a massive giant battered the gates, ignoring the rain of arrows.   

"We don't have long," drawled a voice beside him.

Jorah turned, squinting against the rain.   _Lannister_.  This man was very different from the brash kid he remembers from the Siege of Pyke.  Bearded, dark-haired and maimed.  _We all got old, but no more so than this one,_ he thinks _._

"Yes", Mormont replies.  "The gates will fall, but even if they don't, the piles of dead will mount faster than we can burn them, and then they'll step over the walls."

Jaime leaned slightly over the parapet to get a better look. "Snow's not helping either.  I hate the fucking north."

"We could just stop killin' 'em" said another voice. The Onion Knight. He took a place beside them.

Jorah shrugged. "Perhaps, but then they'll just be more of them when they do get through the gates.  The only hope we've got is destroying their generals, and we have to lure them out."

"If they even come, they may decide it's not in their interests to make themselves available to be killed", Lannister said doubtfully.  "Is 'killed' even the right word?"  He looked back at Jorah, "Davos tells me you actually saw them disintegrate?"

"Yes.  North of the wall.  We killed one of the White Walkers and his wights fell immediately.  We have to get the wights.  If they don't come to us, we have to find them."

"Easier said than done. Can't even find me balls in this weather", Davos said darkly. "Just got to trust that Jon is right and they're coming for Bran.  Speaking of, you and you're lady knight", he gestured at Brienne, where she was directing a group of soldiers above North Gate, "you need to get there.  If they turn up, through some magic or whatever, and you're gabbing up here, all is lost."

Jaime frowned.  The plan obviously didn't sit well with the knight, and Jorah could not imagine that Jaime Lannister would be happy about abandoning the fight to act as body guard to a cripple.

Still, he seemed to accept it, albeit not without protest.  "The plan is shit.  But I'm going, I'm going. Mormont, you coming?"

"In a moment", Jorah replied.

Jorah could feel Davos' eyes on him as Jaime stomped away in the direction of Brienne. When he turned, the other knight's eyes were clouded with sympathy.  "She's the safest she can be,"  he said, quietly, gesturing at the sky. "Up there on that dragon."

Jorah sighed and nodded.  Was he really that obvious? "Telling myself that doesn't make being down here, wondering, any easier." 

He turned to leave, but as he did a massive form swept from the sky. 

His heart leapt at the possibility that it was Drogon.  Then it sunk.

 _No, not Drogon, Viserion_.  _Or what is left of him._

 _"Down" s_ creamed a voice, maybe Davos, and Jorah dived behind a railing.

The dragon swooped.  A ball of blue fire exploded from its mouth and ignited the far side of the castle and the roof of the great keep. Men, caught in the inferno, screamed in agony. Timbers cracked.  There was chaos, and soldiers ran for cover as dragon rose into the air again.  

Then, spare seconds later, the sky exploded. Drogon, a nearly invisible shadow against the storm, slammed into his brother, driving him back and over the castle, toward the battlefield. As he did he roared in rage, his anger shaking the already crumbling buildings.  Fire, blue and yellow, flashed through the sky, and for a moment Jorah could see, as clearly as day, the hordes of the battlefield and even the scattered Dothraki on the plains beyond. 

The dragons, alive and dead, scratched and screamed, clutching each other as they spiralled back upwards into the clouds.  Barely visible, clutching Drogon's back, was a tiny figure cloaked in white.  

Jorah stood, frozen in horror.   _Danearys!_

_There is nothing I can do._

Nearly every person on the wall watched in fascination as the huge beasts tumbled and span, nearly disappearing from sight.  Then, as the clouds began to close around them, Drogon roared, and pulled away from his rival, then breathed a massive blast at him.  Drogon then dived and landed on all fours on the snow, mere meters from the wall.  He swung its huge tail and buffeted its wings, sending undead flying. He breathed another burst of fire, incinerating any that remained. 

On his back, Dany clung for dear life, her face pale but determined.

Drogon looked up and the wall, and straight at Jorah. He's eyes were flaming pits, vicious and curiously intelligent, and they spoke to Jorah. 

 _Protect her._ _Protect my mother._

Of course he would.  He could do nothing else.

Drogon convulsed, bucked Dany off his back, and flew back at Viserion.

Dany was alone, outside the walls, as her dragon flew away.  That could not be.  Jorah took a step back, hand on the wall.

"What do yeh think yeh doin?" cried Davos.

But Jorah didn't think, didn't hesitate.  Grasping Heartsbane, he sprung over the wall, and down onto the mass of singed bodies and mushy snow below.

 

**JON**

**_The skies above Winterfell_ **

Rhaegal swept out of the clouds, dropping down low over Winterfell.  Jon saw bursts of fire exploding across the battlefield.  Then, with horror, he saw Drogon crouched beside the walls on the far side of Winterfell, the tiny form of Dany beside him, and Viserion towering above him, preparing to breath. 

His dragon clearly saw the same thing. Perceiving that his mother was in danger, Rhaegal didn't hesitate - the huge dragon flapped its mighty wings and dived at its Viserion.  The ground approached at an alarming speed. 

The crow beside him cawed and cried, astoundingly audible above the sound of the storm. 

"Jump!"  It seemed to say.  "Jump!"

With barely a moment to think, Jon prepared to do just that. He stood, and threw himself off his mount's back just as the dragons collided in a frenzy of momentum.   A burst of crackling blue flame - Viserion's - flew harmlessly into the air mere meters from his head.

Then then the world dissolved into more grey and white flashing.

Jon landed heavily, tucked and rolled, thankful at last for the falling snow.  His head spinning, he collapsed into it.

 

**BRIENNE**

**_Winterfall - near the North Gate_ **

"Brienne!  Brienne, are you alright?"

Jaime.  He was shaking her, and she tried to focus her eyes on his face, filled as it was with concern.  She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness.

"Yes, yes, I think...What happened?" 

Jaime examined her quickly, running his hand down her body to check for injuries.  Any other time, she'd probably try to memorise the feel of that, but now was not the time.  She did a quick inventory of limbs and parts. Her ears were ringing, and her shoulder hurt, but she was otherwise alright.

She looked around quickly. A wave of fear slid through her. "Pod?"

"Still in the Courtyard, I think."

Another explosion of lightening and fire tore through the dark, and Brienne looked up to see the dragons dancing overhead.  A ball of fire fell from the sky, thankfully landing somewhere beyond the castle, but still lighting up the horizon with a reddish glare.

 _'_ jaime gave his best approximation of a smile.  "I'm adding 'giant throwing rocks' and 'flying ball of fire'  to the reasons why I hate the north" he told her.

Brienne gave a slightly dizzy smile back.  And then she remembered what she'd seen, before the tower exploded!  "I saw the dragon drop something!"  she said suddenly.  "Before I was hit.  Near the armoury, maybe."

"White Walkers?" Jaime asked.

"No idea."  She pushed to her feet. "Let's go."

They pushed their way across the top of the wall to the tower stairs.  Around them, an eclectic collection of bodies was throwing things over the wall, shuffling for position.  Jaime shoved a particularly large fellow out of the way, and pulled her through.  Then he stopped, so suddenly that Brienne almost walked into him. 

"What the..." He stammered.

She followed his gaze.  He was staring out across battlefield, across the horde, to where something large and white glittered among the dead, picking its way toward to walls.

"No fucking way," he groaned. 

Picking its way through the dead was a creature of fear and nightmare. A massive white spider, with a rider on its back.

A moan of of fear and horror coursed through the soldiers on the walls, as many of them started to back away.

"Hold the wall!  Hold!" Brienne cried, but her voice sounded shaky and weak. She narrowed her eyes and stared at the creature, taking deep breaths to calm herself.  She calculated its path.

"It's heading for the Godswood," she announced.

Jaime nodded. "Bran.  We're late.  Let's go."

Brienne looked around. "Where's Ser Mormont?"

"Probably wherever the Targaryan girl is!" Jaime muttered. "Her dragon dumped her.  Forget him, if we're doing this plan we've got to go now.

They run along the wall.  The far side of the keep was burning, and in at least one place a wall was breached and soldiers were engaging in the dead in melee. Ahead of them, at the North Gate, they could see a massive giant pounding at the portcullis, its body riddled with arrows.  It resembled a pin cushion, or a giant porcupine, but seemed singularly unaffected by its predicament. Hordes of the dead pushed up against the gate at its feet. The sound of creaking metal and cracking wood pierced the air.  Brienne could sense the doubt and disorder beginning to spread their tendrils through the troops, even as Greyworm and his lieutenants and the northern commanders sought to control them.

 "Coming through, let us through!" Jaime was swearing and shoving people out of the way as they reached the stairs. When they reached them, they found them clogged with bodies - the terrified fleeing down and the unsullied heading up.

"Fuck this,"  Jaime swore.

"The battlements!"  Brienne exclaimed.  "Head around the gate, along the wall.  Let's try and head off that ... whatever it is, before it gets in there."

Jaime gave her a sidelong glance and chuckled, as they dashed along the wall.  "You are the bravest wench I have ever met" he grinned at her, filling her with pride. "And if you think I can fight that, you are seriously overestimating my capabilities."

"Then stay here, Jaime," she replies.  It's a riposte, but a large part of her means it, too.  He is struggling, fighting with his left-hand, and she doesn't want to lead him to his death.  Still, another part of her doesn't want to leave him, either.  Its morbid, and a little selfish, but if they are going to die, she wants them to be side by side, at last.

Jaime clearly had no intention of leaving anyway.  "And leave you to take all the glory? Not a chance," he replied.

Somewhere behind Brienne, the Winterfell gate cracked and splintered. She hesitated at the sound of a child's scream, but Jaime urged her on.  "You can't help.  Come on!"

As they cleared the gatehouse, they could see the red and white leaves of the Godswood trees ahead of them.  A glance to their left told them that the spider creature was nearly at the wall.  Close up, it was even more grotesque than it was at a distance.  Fleetingly, Brienne wondered what a creature that large could even find to  _eat_ in that ice, but she just as quickly decided she didn't want to know.

Another dragons swooped overhead, and they ducked. Seconds later, the ice spider appeared on the walls before them, it's long legs heaving it up.

"I refuse to believe this is real," Jaime stated blandly.

Unfortunately, it clearly was.

Jaime and Brienne looked at each other in resignation, and gripped their blades. 

"This is the most preposterous day of my life," Brienne announced.

"It’s certainly the most insane day of mine!"  He agreed.  Then he took a deep breath, seeming to draw from some inner courage, and said to himself, barely audible above the sounds of battle, "the Seven must be laughing at us already, so why not?" He turned to look at her.

"Ser Brienne," he announced. "I came here for you!  I love you!  Now try not to get killed, so I can kiss you when this is over!"

And with that, he drew his Valyrian steel, and, a little awkwardly, leapt at the creature.

Brienne stood motionless for a moment, stunned.   _Of all the times...!_   _Maybe the falling masonry scrambled both our brains_? Then she shook her head, came to her senses, and went in after him.

 

**SANSA**

**_Winterfell - the crypts_ **

Sansa sat amid the ashes of her ancestors, as her home crumbled above her.  Around her women sobbed and children wailed. The air stank of fear and piss and blood.  They feared the end was upon them, and Sansa understood their terror.  But Sansa couldn't cry.  She had no more tears left in her, and hardly any fear either.  She barely felt anything at all. Sansa may not be a warrior like Jon or Arya, but she was a fighter.  Winterfell was her home.  It would one day be her tomb, but she was determined that that day was not today.

She felt no shame taking cover in the crypts.  She had known she would be next to useless upstairs, a burden on others who would be forced to protect her.  There had been women who had wanted to fight.  Girls who had hunted with bows or butchered with blades, but Sansa had done neither of these things.  In her whole life she had held nothing more deadly than a dinner knife, at least until Arya handed her a blade.  "Stick 'em with the pointy end", her sister had instructed her. But Sansa was clever enough to know that sticking the point somewhere it would go some good was harder than it looked. 

No, staying here with the women was the most practical assistance she could provide, for now.  When the battle was won, that would be a different story. 

Still, they were not idle. They had torn up sheets and shifts and curtains for bandages.  Beaten herbs and ground nuts and melted fats for poultices.  Laid out beds, and made splints for broken limbs and thread for stitching wounds.  Baked hard breads and brewed bear and stripped willow bark for tea.  They could be useful in time, but now they had to wait.

Wait, and watch Tyrion pace back and forth like a caged lion.  

The man was obviously not very good at waiting.  He was pacing with such intensity that Sansa wondered if he would wear away the granite floor.  He wrung his hands, bit his lip and ground his teeth and, when on the few occasions he stopped the incessant pacing, he shuffled his feet and wrung his hands and looked generally despondent. 

"I would almost be glad if the dead awoke, if you would give me something to do other than pace", he said despondently.

"Kind of hard to awaken from dust," Sansa replied. 

The weight of what they had done - disinter and burn the bodies of her ancestors - still hurt.   _May they one day forgive us._ But there were few other places in Winterfell as sturdy and secure as the crypts, and they could not risk the dead rising.

Tyrion was undeterred.  "Maybe the lack of a physical body would free them to arise as ghosts.  Wouldn't that we something?  All the fuss about doors and walls and barricades and the dead could just  walk right through them..."

Sansa shuddered.  "Optimistic as always" she said dryly.  

Tyrion smiled. "I consider myself pragmatic.  A trait I believe I increasingly share with you."

It was true.  Sansa could barely remember being that young, innocent girl who loved flowers in her hair, and stories of brave knights and desperate maidens, and who fainted politely at the site of blood.  That girl had been gullible and idealistic and, at one time, in love with Joffrey - gods,  _Joffrey!_ what was she thinking?  Or not thinking?

That girl was long gone, replaced with a woman so lacking in sentiment that she had allowed her sister to cut the throat of a man right in front of her, had watched another man be, gratifyingly, eaten by his dogs, and had in recent days insisted that every tomb in this crypt be emptied and the remains burnt, so as to deprive the Night King of future soldiers. 

She was about to respond to Tyrion's observation, when Ghost uttered a low, vicious growl.  His ears pricked and the hackles on his back rose. 

She and Tyrion both immediately looked up and at the crypt door. 

"They're here." They spoke in unison.

Tyrion threw a look over his shoulder to Varys, who nodded in turn.  "Come on children", he said quickly but calmly. "Come with me." 

Gilly and a few of the other women joined in helping the young ones to their feet, moving back into the deeper depths of the crypts. Blank eyed and terrified, most followed.  A few clung to their mothers, and those women left to.  The other women - mothers of older children, grandmothers, teenagers, lined up behind the barrels of pitch. 

Sansa thought of Theon, and his vow to protect her.  _If the dead are here, then_ _Theon is dead_ , she thought.  Cold ripples of pain ran through her, but she couldn’t think of that now. 

 _Survive to mourn,_ she told herself.  _Survive to avenge him._

The pounding on the door increased, and the wood began to creak and break.

Sansa drew her dagger, and Tyrion his sword.  

The door splintered, pieces of timber flying into the room. 

They dead did not enter in a torrent, so much as a sludgy mush - pale and clambering and jerky. 

The women threw the flaming pitch, taking the out the front ranks with little difficulty.   Their burning corpses formed a new barricade of a kind

 _Time_ , Sansa reminded herself, _we just_ _need time_.  Time for this crazy plan to work.

The stench of death and burning was nauseating.  Some of the women began to retch, others took steps backwards, reading to retreat.

"Hold the line!'  Tyrion yelled, as if reading their minds. 

More burnt and crumpled corpses began to pile across the door.  But there were so many!  A staggered in, past the barricades, some alight.

Ghost snarled and roared and launched himself into the melee.  His teeth sunk into a lumbering wight.  Moments later,  Tyrion followed suit, moving to engage a wight that made it into the room.

The women around her screamed and threw what they could, desperate to stop any advance on the children.

Sansa fingered her dagger, and prayed.

_Come on, Jon.  Come on._


	2. Episode 803 - The Long Night - Part 2 of 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I love a spectacular, set piece battle as much as any fantasy fan. But I also love the smaller, character driven moments that make combat and conflict personal and engaging. Somewhere around season 7 in GoT, we seemed to lose the latter, in favor of the former. This is my attempt to bring some balance back. I admit it has many plot contrivances and, if actually implemented on the show, would have derogatorily been dismissed as too full of 'fan service'. But isn't fanfic about wish fulfillment? So on that note, here is Part 2 of my rework of The Long Night.

**JON**

**_Winterfell - The Godswood_ **

Jon came to beneath a tree trunk, his mouth full of snow and his head pounding.  He passingly wondered if he’d had too much White Habour Black and passed out on the way home, but then he remembered that he had just fallen from a dragon.

Slowly, his senses kicked into action.  He could hear nearby the familiar clang of metal on metal, and the more unusual sound of metal on something crunchy, as well as grunts and cries of battle.  He turned his head to the source of the sound and tried to focus.  It looked as if two figures were fighting a giant spider.  _Gods, how hard did I hit my head?_ He had to be hallucinating.

An explosion of fire and thunder drew his attention overhead and he looked up. Drogon and Viserion were clashing, fire raining down over the distant tundra.  He instantly thought of Dany.  He couldn’t see her on Drogon’s back - but right now focusing his eyes on anything was challenging, let alone a moving dragon high in the sky.  Still, he was sure she wasn’t on Drogon's back.  A mixed torrent of fear and relief flooded over him.  It was a good thing that she wasn't on a dueling dragon, but if she was not there, where was she?

 And then he remembered the plan and Bran. 

_Bran!  He had to get to Bran!_

 Jon turned his head to the left, and saw a winding path leading through trunks and brambles.  He was in the Godswood.  _Good._  He put his hand on the tree trunk and used it to stand up, shakily.  His ankle and knee hurt, and a sharp pain erupted form his chest when he breathed in.   _Broken rib maybe. Great._ Still, all things considered, he was probably lucky he wasn’t in worse shape _._ He was mobile, which was all that mattered.  Adrenaline would see him the through the battle.

He looked around at the overgrown tangle and thought, stupidly, how much better kept this garden had been when Catelyn was alive.

There was another cry from beside him, this one of pain.  The humans – one of whom, on size alone, had be Ser Brienne – appeared to be coming off the worse of the battle with the spider thing.  His hand moved to his blade.

 _No, I don’t have time.  If I don’t get to Bran, all is lost._  

Groggily, Jon turned away from the spider and followed the path to the Weirwood Tree.  It was with much relief that he found Bran beneath it, still and silent in his odd wheeled chair.  Beside him was a second figure. Melisandre.  That was not expected. He approached the figures carefully, an anger rising in his gut.  Bran was defenceless and alone. Where was everyone?  And why was the Red Woman here?

He reached the base of the tree, and looked at her.  "You're not meant to be here.  It's not safe."

She smiled that serene, slightly condescending smile.  "The Lord of Light has one last task for me to preform, Jon Snow, and then I will be gone."

He grunted.  He didn't really believe her, or want her there, or even trust her, but she was unarmed and likely on the side of the living, so he figured she was the least of his concerns.

"Where is everyone?" he asked no one in particular. 

Blearily, he remembered that Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime were otherwise occupied.  _Probably by now dead._ What had possessed them to fight ...that? .

“Where is Arya? Ser Jorah?" He asked. 

He had not really been expecting an answer, but Bran provided one anyway.  

"Ser Jorah is where he needs to be, and the others are coming," he replied. "As is he."

 

**ARYA**

_**Winterfell - the Courtyard** _

Arya perched on top of the slender wall between the Godswood and the courtyard, and surveyed the ruin of her childhood home.

The Godswood was to her left.  Even in the dark, she could just make out the the Weirwood tree, it's white trunk and red leaves just darker shadows against lighter shadow.  Bran was there, and maybe Jon.  She should be there, too.

Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne were also in the Godswood, but they hadn't made the Weirwood tree.  The were nearly beneath her, battling what looked to be a white walker and something large that resembled a hideous cross between a dragon and an eight legged dog.  The most that could be said of them was that they appeared to be surviving, albeit only just.  Notwithstanding his legendary status, the kingslayer was at only slightly better than competent with his left hand, and his instincts were notably awry.  He was using his shield skillfully, getting the spider’s attention by letting it clobber him. Presumably he was trying to keep it away from Brienne.

Brienne was doing better against the white walker.  The woman was as strong as an ox and probably twice as stubborn, but she was clearly distracted by Ser Jaime, and kept trying to get to him.  

_They need to get to Bran._

Arya let her gaze fall to the other side of the wall, to the courtyard. She watched as the unsullied, the only truly disciplined troops, did their best to form lines and barriers against the increasing number of breaches in the walls. They were already being overwhelmed.

In the expanse between the courtyard and the North Gate a handful of northmen and wildlings were driving at the undead in a more chaotic fashion, Tormund Giantsbane prominent amongst them.  Bits of dead wight flew like sparks from a flame whenever the red bearded wildling swung his massive blade.  He seemed to be enjoying himself, his companions somewhat less so. 

The remaining force of half trained defenders where less impressive.  Many were holding their own, but others were panicking, running, standing and screaming or stabbing randomly as whatever moved in their presence. Some poor souls would likely die by the inadvertent hand of their friends.

Try as she might, she couldn’t make out the crypts, which lay behind another wall.  _Be safe, Sansa._ She couldn’t see Gendry, nor Sandor, in the mess either. 

 _Beric is dead._ She recalled.  _He saved me._

Something was happening on the far side of the courtyard, near the keep.  She squinted, and could just make out a handful of tall figures moving toward the Godswood.  The mass of undead seemed to move aside to allow them through. She tried to focus on the figures, but it was too dark.  She could see, however, what appeared to be a mass of movement behind them, followed by rising screams. 

 _The dead!_ Arya realised.   _Whatever they are, they are raising the dead behind them!_

She heard a massive bellow from the north, and her gaze was drawn back to the North Gate.  To her astonishment she saw the legs of another spider creature clamour onto the wall. Giantsbane let out what sounded like a whoop of delight when he saw it.   _Wildlings are bloody crazy._

Arya stared back into the courtyard.  Somewhere down there, among the dead and the monsters and the chaos, were most of the people she actually cared about. Her heart felt like it had relocated itself to her throat.  Her thighs twitched, ready to leap.  But she held back.  Her earlier attempt to jump into a melee had been a disaster.  That experience had cost Beric his life, protecting her, and she had learned she was not made for front line soldiering.  She needed quiet, stealth, and one on one.  Launching herself back into the courtyard would achieve little but her certain death. 

She allowed herself a moment of worry for Sansa, for Gendry, for Sandor, and then she pushed those feelings aside.

 _I cannot help them._ _And I must not be distracted by them._   _Tonight, I am not a sister, a lover, a friend.  I am no one.  I am death._

She looked back to tree, where Bran would be, and then to Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne.  They wielded Valyrian steel, like her blade.  That was what was important. 

 _“Brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes…eyes you will shut forever.”_ Melisandre had told her.

Well, the eyes of the walker below her were as blue as she had ever seen.

She turned away from the courtyard and toward the Godswood.  

Carefully, she crept along the wall. Above her, three dragons clashed and the sky was on fire.  The noise of it almost drowned out the sound of Ser Jaime’s shield being smashed by the ice spider's fangs. Unfortunately, Brienne heard it. “Jaime!” she screamed. Arya saw, out of the corner of her eye, Brienne turning to Jaime, and then earning a slice across her chest from the White Walker blade.  The huge knight stumbled beneath the force of the blow, and barely raised her blade in time to block another attack.  

It was now or never. 

Wondering, again, why exactly she was risking her life for a Lannister -  _his blade, you idiot!_ \- Arya propelled herself off the wall and onto the back of the ice spider below her.  In flight, she pulled apart the double-bladed sword Gendry had made her, and as she landed she drove both blades into two of the eyes on the top of its head. She felt with some satisfaction the sticky ‘pop’ as the eyeballs burst and the blades sunk into the creature's head.  

Disappointingly, it didn't die.  Instead, it reared up, front fangs slashing, legs flailing. The kingslayer did not waste a moment, thrusting up with his blade into its softer underbelly.  There was a nauseating gurling noise as black sludge and gooey innards burst from the gash, much of it landing on Ser Jaime. Arya felt the creature begin to fall beneath her, and jumped onto the soft snow beside it.

Ser Jaime barely noticed the mess, struggling to roll out of the way and get to his feet. “Brienne!”    

Arya turned to see Brienne on one knee, her blade barely holding back the white walker's weapon.  The pale, eerie creature was solely focused on the knight.  At Jaime's cry, it looked up, but only too late did it realise the new foe behind it.  Arya drew and threw her Valyrian knife, connecting solidly with the icy flesh of its back, beneath its rib. 

There was a brief pause, and then the White Walker disintegrated. Brienne, still on one knee, fell slightly forward against the now missing weight. She put her hand out he ground to balance, and stared at the snowy dust before her.Jaime, who was laying prone on the ground, stared up at Arya in a stunned awe.  She strode over and pulled her blades from the spider’s eyes.   Then she turned around and smirked.

“You’re lucky you’re not on my list, Kingslayer.”

 

**SANSA**

_**Winterfell - The Crypts** _

 

Ghost’s eerily high pitched squeal echoed through the chamber.   A wight was on top of him, its hands and legs were wrapped around him in a parody of a wrestle, and its filthy, broken teeth gnawing at his ear.  The huge wolf bucked and shook, trying to shake the feral creature off, to no avail.  

Sansa stood still and mute in the corner of the room, watching Ghost struggle.  Tyrion and a very large woman with arms the size of suckling pigs and the shape of mutton chops were wrestling with another wight that had made its way through the broken door.   Bodies of its companions, and two formerly recently alive women, lay scattered across the floor, some burnt, some dismembered.  A few of the corpses still twitched or gaped their mouths, refusing to die. She watched in horror as a legless corpse pulled itself across the floor toward her. 

The fire exhausted, most of the other women had fled deeper into the crypts. Sansa was paralyzed with fear and indecision, unwilling to leave Tyrion and the handful of defenders alone, but unable to think of anything productive to do. 

 _You are the lady of Winterfell,_  she told herself.   _Do something - anything!_

Sansa steeled herself, drew a deep shaky breath, took a step forward, and slammed the heal of her boot into the head of the legless corpse.  The skull gave a satisfying cracking sound and collapsed. She felt a gratifying rush of adrenaline.  She could do this!

She starred at the dagger in her hand, and then at ghost where he writhed.  The creature appeared to be eating his ear.  Sansa took a wary step, and then another, toward the wolf.   _They are moving too fast!_   She raised the knife and then let it fall in an attempt to strike the wight.

She hit the wight, not the Ghost, which was gratifying if nothing else.  But the strike was not effective in the way she hoped it would be.  The blade glanced off some bony mass in the creature’s back, and then went flying out of her hand.  It did no real damage, but it did get the wight's attention.  It turned to look at her, half a dog ear dangling from its mouth.  Sansa froze unable to even scream, and the creature started to lunge.

And then it collapsed. 

Sansa gasped.  

The undead creature on Tyrion, the one near the strong woman, the handful struggling through the door all collapsed as well.

"Not a moment too soon!" cried Tyrion.  Panting, he fell to his knees.“It’s working!”

Sansa nodded, dully, still not quite believing what she had just seen.  Jon must have killed the Night King!  _No, only a white walker most likely,_  she reminded herself.

She gathered her skirts and rushed to the ruined door.  Undead bodies were strewn across the pavement before her, and she was momentarily overwhelmed with elation. But then she looked up.  In the distance she could still see many, many more wights.  Screams still echoed in her ears. 

Tyrion put a hand on her arm.  “He’s taken out one the generals,"  he said quietly. “But there are more, we need to get back in.  Hide. Make some kind of barricade."

But Sansa heard him.  “Theon!”  She whispered. 

Theon’s body lay just outside the crypt door, surrounded by corpses.  His longbow was discarded behind him, and a sword law just outside his hand. His injuries were vast, and there was no doubt he was dead, but in that moment Sansa did not care.  She rushed to him and pulled him into her arms.  Her tears came fast and hot and she buried her face in his neck.Tyrion approached her slowly. “Sansa…”  his voice was soft but firm, cutting into her grief.  "Come on."  She didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to leave.  

“Sansa…” Tyrion's voice had a much harder edge now.  "We have to leave.  Now."

Sansa was only vaguely aware of the rising cacophony of screams and cries around her.  She tried to shut it out, looked instead at Theon’s poor, ruined face.  He Gently, she closed his eyes, and started to lie him on the ground.  He looked peaceful, for once.  _No more pain._

"Rest well, my brother."

And then Theon opened his eyes again.  

For a wonderful moment, Sansa thought that maybe, just maybe, her had survived.

But then she realised his eyes were blue.  She screamed. Tyrion grabbed her hand.  They began to run.

 

 

**JON**

_**Winterfell - The Godswood** _

“Jon!"

Jon looked around dizzily to see Arya, Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne stumble into the clearing, Valyran blades in hand.  

 _Strange times indeed when I am relieved to see Jaime Lannister_ , he thought.

Jaime was limping and Brienne was bloodied, but Arya didn't look too worse for wear.  Her eyes had a deadly gleam to them that suggested she was out for blood.  Or killing of some kind. Jon still wasn't sure how he felt about Arya being on the battle field, let alone being a trained and hardened killer, but he'd resigned himself to the fact that, whatever he did, she'd be there anyway, so she may as well be doing something useful. 

He must have looked frustrated, because Jaime simply said, "We got delayed.  Don't ask." 

The four warriors and the witch stood for a moment, eyeing each other over the seated form of Bran. This was one of the most unlikely quartets of swordsmen he could imagine, with nothing in common except Valyrian Steel Blades and hot blood in their veins. Melisandre added a whole other dimension. 

"We are ready, your grace." said Brienne. 

She moved to stand close to Jaime, then raised her arm to squeeze his briefly.  It was a surprisingly intimate gesture.

Arya snorted.  "Are you two seriously doing that  _now?"_

Brienne went red, and Jaime smirked.  

Then Bran said, in his odd, expressionless voice, "they are here". 

They moved instinctively, with Jon, Brienne and Jaime forming a circle around Bran, and Arya stepping slightly behind.  Somewhere behind them, Melisandre began to chant.

Three tall, blue figures emerged from the gloom. They were gaunt and foreboding, human only in form, creatures of ice and storms. 

Suddenly, the world dark.  The flashes of fire and lightening disappearing behind a cloud of sable shadow.

”Is it my imagination, or did the dragons just go out,”  asked Jaime. 

Arya swore.  

Brienne said "what's happening", the tremor in her usually steady voice betraying her fear. 

The Red Woman chanted louder. 

The sudden blackness was impenetrable.  Jon couldn't see a thing.  He tried to listen for the walkers, for the sound of their feet, but between the sounds of battle, the chanting and Jaime and Arya's swearing, there was no hope. 

A creeping, unnatural cold began to slither up his legs, slowing his movements.  

"Whatever you're doing, do it fast," he yelled to the witch.  _And please let it have something to do with fire._

"Look down!" cried Melisandre, a moment later, and he did. Long Claw exploded into flame. 

Around him, Arya, Jaime and Brienne's swords did likewise. Bright red flames, warming but not hot, lit the Godswood, chasing the shadows away.

The light appeared to dazzle the white walkers as much as the humans, although not for long.  They had lot their advantage, but they had come prepared for battle, and knew no fear.   One white walker, wielding a curved blade, was on Jon.  Brienne engaged a second, Jaime the third.  The clang of steel on steel echoed throughout the Godswood. The battle was joined. 

 

**PODRICK**

_**Winterfell - The Courtyard** _

Podrick fought the urge to retch, and to run, as the dead rose around him. 

These were men he knew, men he had only minutes ago been fighting beside.  Men he had just seen die. They looked at him with hunger and violence in their now-blue eyes. 

He clutched his sword in his hand and stared, unable to bring himself to attack.  _I know these men. I can’t…_

Beside him, the blacksmith - what was his name?  Gendry? - swung his massive axe, crushing first one skull, and then a second, apparently unbothered by who they previously belonged to.

"It's not them," Gendry yelled at him. "It's not them.  Help them rest."

Pod nodded, and tried to steel his mind, to overcome his aversion to killing men wearing the same livery as him.  He swung his blade, and connected with the chest of a man he’d shared a drink with earlier that week.  Geremy, that was his name. He had a brother and his father was a farmer.

Geremy's head fell from his shoulders.  Pod fought the urge to vomit, again.  But he moved to protect Gendry's back.  He had to kill these things, and survive.

Brienne, and the world, was counting on him. 

 

**JORAH**

_**Winterfell - Outside the Walls** _

Heartsbane erupted in flame, and Jorah nearly dropped it.  

The bright red light emitted from the blade was momentarily dazzling, but the flames were not nearly hot enough to burn him.  

"What the hell..."

"Melisandre", said Dany, from where she stood behind him  "The Red Woman, and her Lord of Light."

Jorah starred at it blankly.  Magic.  "Right".

Unfortunately, however impressive the flames were, and however useful they might be against the wights, the sudden burst of light could not have happened at a worse time for Jorah and Dany.  

They were standing on the ruined tundra beside Winterfell, somewhere on a vast battlefield littered with wight carcasses, rocks, burnt timber and every other form of detritus thrown from the castle walls.  The ground was a mush of melted snow, fresh snow, black blood and innards.  They had been trying to get across it quietly.

After he had jumped from the wall - fortunately landing in the fresh snow - Jorah had found Danaerys in an uncharacteristic state of shock. 

"Drogon threw me off!" She'd cried, her voice somewhere between angst and a fiery righteous indignation.  

Jorah had shaken his head.  “He didn’t Khaleesi, he saved you.  But it will be in vain unless I get you out of here.  Come on.”

He'd grabbed her hand and pulled her up to him, determined to make a run for it.  But getting off a live battlefield with a noncombatant was no simple thing. He had quickly found a relatively defensible spot among the smouldering remains of a barricade, and taken stock of the situation.  He had ideally planned to get Dany back inside Winterfell, but now that he could see the crowds of undead lurching toward the crumbling walls and shattered gate, he realised inside may not be the safest option.  He had been contemplating making a run for the edge of the battlefield, and the Dorthraki, when his blade had lit up like a beacon.

The undead had seen before he could even think about sheathing it - not a good option in the circumstances anyway.  Any prospect they had of getting across the battlefield unnoticed gone. Alerted by the light, the closest mass of wights, a sprawling mass clawing to get at the living within the walls, immediately realized the proximity of the much easier bait outside them.  They turned to Dany and Jorah, a great horde of them, and begun to move toward them.

Jorah did a quick calculation.  They could stand and fight, or they could run.  But where?  Could they make the Dorthraki?  It was a huge risk.  The route was exposed, and he did not know how far Dany could run.  _Not as far as those wights. T_ hey were also too close anyway. Without thinking, Jorah pushed her behind him, trying to wedge her into the detritus, and set his blade to defending her. 

The wights were slow and unskilled, but there were so many of them, an endless number, and they were drawn to the living like moths to a flame.  

Jorah saw Dany reaching down to pull a sword from one of the bodies around her.  It was too big for her, but she brandished it confidently, if awkwardly.  Even bedraggled, dirty, and facing her own possible death, she truly was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.   His life was hers, had been since he met her, and he knew he would lay it down for her willingly one day. He just hoped that didn't have to be today.

Even from their relatively defensible position amongst the barricade, there were open to attacks from many at once.  Jorah blocked and parried what he could with his sword, but his arms too quickly grew exhausted and slow.  He had to block one particularly vicious sword thrust with his body, the blade piercing his shoulder.  Now he was seriously losing blood. 

Behind him, Dany flailed with her blade.  She was holding her own, and had even struck a few, but she would be no match for them without him.

Jorah's mind was whirling through options,  but none were good.  They couldn't last here much longer.  "We...have to run,"  he gasped, the intake of air sending ripples of pain down his chest.  "The wall...maybe..."

After that, Dany was silent for a long moment, while Jorah blocked several more attacks.  He spared a glance, to affirm she hadn't been hurt, and ended up with another wound to his thigh.   

"No, not the wall,”  she said finally, in a voice that had a straneg and distant quality to it. "The fire."

She took a step back, toward the smouldering barricade.

Jorah felt his stomach grow cold, “Khalessi…” he said, uncertainly. 

She cut him off with a look. “I am a creature of fire, Jorah,” she told him firmly, her voice steady and without even a trace of fear. “And I will show these ice creatures what fire can do.”

Jorah felt her small hands on his arm, as she pulled him back with her.  The wights clawed at their retreat.  The heat of the smouldering barricade burnt his back. 

"Give me your sword" she whispered quickly. The request was bizarre, but he did immediately. The wights then closed the distance with a single step, and he took a hit from one as he passed Heartsbane to her and grabbed the plainer one she held in return.

It took only a blink of the eye for Dany to make her next move.  To Jorah's horror, she thrust the burning blade into the flesh of her stomach.  Blood spurted from the wound, and the fire from the blade sizzled and dance and erupted around them.

“I am Daenerys Targaryan, the Unburnt,” she cried, her voice echoing across the battlefield. “And you will burn!".”

Blood red flames leapt from the sword.  They re-ignited the barricades behind them, orange and red flames rising to leap and dance in unison.  The wights caught in the circle of flames nearly exploded, incinerated within moments. Others behind them caught alight.  None could come no closer.

Pillars of flame flew into the air, joining the dragonfire above.  In the clouds above, Rhaegel and Drogon screamed their approval. 

Jorah sat, stunned, for a moment.  Then Dany fell to the ground next to him. She was shivering, half naked, much of her clothing burnt away. Her hands were clasping a wound on her stomach.

Jorah stripped off his shirt - or what was left of it, which wasn't much - and covered her. A quick look at the wound convinced him it was likely painful, but not fatal.

They were safe, for now, encased in this wall of flame.  But power like this cannot come without a price, and we wondered what this had just cost her. 

**SANSA**

_**Winterfell - Outside the Crypts** _

 

As the dead rose, Sana and Tyrion simply ran.

Their first thought had been to get back to the crypt, but that way was blocked, not by the door, but by the now mobile corpses of the dead who had fallen fighting on either side of it.  Sansa spared a thought for the women and children still hiding within, but knew there was nothing she could do.   

"Bugger," Tyrion swore.  He dragged her to their right, toward the gate to the main courtyard.  But one look through that opening was enough to convince them not to go there. The whole courtyard was being consumed in a maelstrom of the dead. Even their approach was a mistake - their movement, or perhaps their smell, drawing the attention of a handful of wights on the edge.  they detached themselves from the mass and they started shuffling through to gate and toward them.

Tyrion swore again, and this time and pulled her back the other direction.

Sansa stared around frantically.  Briefly, she contemplated fighting their way back into the crypt.  But on the steps near the entrance, the thing that had been Theon had gotten to its feet.  She knew she could not face  _that._ Desperately, she pointed to another archway to the north.  It led back to the wall. There were no undead, and no corpses blocking it.

"Tyrion, the wall! Through that arch, to the wall, there's another gate and a tower.  We can climb them!"

Tyrion nodded his agreement, and they run across the uneven stones, trying not to slip in the snow.   Get on the wall, she thought.  The wights had to climb up.  What they would do after that, she had no idea.  She had her knife and Tyrion his short sword, but neither were likely to do much good against a legion of undead.   _Just buy time._ She kept telling herself.   _Just time._

They sprinted through an archway, and then skidded to a halt.   They both groaned. The passage was blocked, the tower having collapsed. 

"Well, that's just great"  Tyrion sighed. "Do you think you can climb the rubble?"

Sansa eyed it cautiously. "I don't know.  Do we have a choice?"

"Not unless we want to be eaten alive.  We're going to have to try.  Although neither of us are equipped for it."

He looked down at his legs, and over to her dress. Then he looked up, and she met his gaze. She was surprised to find that, along with fear, there was a great deal of affection in them.  She hoped he could read the same in her eyes.  what was a mountain of rubble, compared to what else they had been through together?

Then Tyrion's eyes went wide at something he saw over her shoulder. 

"Well, shit," he said.  

Sansa turned, slowly, dreading what she would see. 

A huge man stood before in the shadows of the archway. Lank hair fell to his shoulders, and his mail and weapon were covered in gore.  He looked to be one of the walking dead, albeit the biggest one she had ever seen.   

Another flash of lightening illuminated the scene, and Sansa saw the man fully.  She had possibly never been happier to see anyone in her life.

"Sandor!"

The burned warrior flashed her a distorted, ugly grin.  "You and your bloody sister are going to be the death of me!"

"Well, I'll be," said Tyrion. "You are truly terrifying without your helm."

Sandor grunted an acknowledgment at Tyrion, but his eyes were fixed on Sansa's face. He looked her over quickly, although whether for injurires or some other purpose she couldn't tell.  Then he nodded.

"Get back in your nest little bird,"  he grunted to her, as he took position under the archway.   "I'm going to kill me undead fuckers."    **  
**

****Jon** **

_**Winterfell - the Godswood.** _

In the Godswood, fire danced with ice. 

Four human warriors, their weapons blazing with magical fire, fought three tall, brutal creatures of ice.  Each battle was a deliberate and deadly distraction.  As the humans were distracted, a fourth creature, later to arrive, taller still than the others and dressed in archaic armor, made its way, unhindered, toward Bran. The Night King was here.  
Jon wielded his flaming sword against the first white walker.  He was not a big man, and his style relied on speed and skill.  The white walker nearly matched him on both, and it was significantly stronger.   Jon only had the slight advantage of knowing the ground, including ruts hidden beneath the soft snow, but even that was not enough to save him from sliding and sliping.  The white walker slashed at him, and he leaned back, ducked, came in again.  They were evenly matched, but he was acutely aware that he was liable to grow tired and his foe would not.

Brienne, now weilding a blazing oathkeeper in both hands, fought against the second white walker.  She was bleeding from a wound to her cheek and another to her chest, but neither seemed to diminish her.  She relied upon strength and brutality, and even against this white walker she had an advantage in reach.

Arya and Jaime fought the third, working surprisingly well together.  Arya was bloodied now, having taken a blow across the face, but she still moved with a kind of peternatrual grace.  She ducked and wove, her double-bladed weapon and her Valyrian knife alternatively slashing at the White Walker's legs and arms.  Jaime was older, stiffer, but still oddly graceful.  He mainly used his blade and what was left of his split shield to block and parry and draw the white walkers attention as Arya nicked and cut, but when the knight got in hits, Widow's Wail bit deep.  Their white walker was the first to fall, Jon noted.  He glimpsed them turning to face the Night King.

Unexpectedly, a slither of ice loosed and slipped beneath Jon's foot, and he tripped and stumbled, falling away from his foe.  The white walker took a step to advance on his prone form, and for a horrifying moment Jon genuinely thought it was over.  Then a roar pieced the air, and Rhaegel was above him - above the white walker, really. The pressure of the air from the huge dragon's wings nearly knocked him over.  Then the dragon's huge claw closed around Jon's white walker, and lifted it into the air.  Stunned, Jon could only stare at the retreating form of the dragon, which dropped its catch somewhere beyond the walls.  When he recovered his senses, and drew himself back to the battlefield. He too had a path to the Night King.

To one side, he saw Brienne behead her walker with a massive swing.

Bran was still in his chair.

There was no time to wait.  Jon tumbled to his feet, glanced at Jaime, and together they move back in front of Bran.

"Arya, now!" Jon yelled, as they took their positions.

Jon couldn’t see where Arya had gone, but he knew she would somewhere, waiting.  And she was.  He dagger flew seemingly out of nowhere,  a blur of flying metal with a direct line to the Night King’s torso.  No human could possibly have avoided it, but the Night King, impossibly fast, caught it easily.  Equally quickly, almost casually, he threw it back in the direction it came from. Almost immediately, Jon heard Arya's cry of pain.

He wanted to run to her, but knew couldn't.  D _on't look!  If you are distracted, all is lost!_

He closed on Jon and Jaime.  Jon went high, and Jaime feinted and went low. They worked together, flaming blades blocking and thrusting, until finally Jaime lunged and Widow's Wail bit home, slashing into the hardness of their foe's side when he failed to turn in time.  The Night King nearly instantly caught Jaime's arm, and used the momentum of the lunge to throw the knight.  He landed with a sickening thud some distance away. But Widow's Wail remained buried in his side.

Brienne was now beside Jon too.  Her blows were slower, but stronger.  He blocked her easily, but the force of her blows provided a needed distraction.   Jon struck at the Night King from the side.  The creature dodged, displaying an agility beyond even Arya, but the small movement provided enough an opportunity for Brienne to slam Oathkeeper into his other side.  There was a strange, almost crystalline sound as the blade connected.  Immediately, the Night King slammed his fist at Brienne's head in retaliation.  She dodged, just, but the glancing blow was enough to knock her over, and she stumbled and fell.

Jon was panting, barely standing.  Inside, he felt his chest tighten and his stomach melt.  He can't win, not alone.  The Night King is to quick, too fast.   _I cannot stop him._

Maybe he was doomed, maybe they all were, but Jon would at least go down fighting.  Fighting for the living with everything he had.  Shakily, he pulled himself to his full height, held Longclaw before him.  Between him, Bran stared that vacant stare.  _He is somewhere else.  He won't even know._ If Bran is to die, Jon will at least make his murderer work for it.

The Night King approached slowly, eyes watching everything, taking no risks.  He closed the distance between them smoothly.

Jon prepared himself for his final stand.

And then the ravens came.  Dozens of them, all at once.  A black cloud of wings and beaks against the night sky.  They flew directly at the Night King, surrounding his face, blocking his vision.

_Bran._

Jon spied a blur of movement behind the Night King, a blood tinged knife flying through the air.  Arya!  This time, the blade connected, biting deep into the space below the Night King's ribs in his back. The monster shuddered, but did not fall.  

Now was his chance.  The last and only one.  

Summoning every remaining skerrick of his strength and will, Jon prepared one final blow.  He could not see the Night King's head beneath the ravens, but his chest was wide open to attack.  Jon thrust the blade deeply beneath in the Night King's chest, just below ribs.

There was a moment's pause.  Ravens cawed and squealed and flapped. 

And then knight king shattered. 

And the wights collpased.

Jon fell to his knees, gasping and panting.  A slither of light appeared on the horizon, and the sun begins to rise.

 

.....................

 

" _I am the Sword in the darkness; the Fire that burns against the cold; the Light that brings the dawn_ ,"- Jon Snow.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: Lots of the canon episode can be taken as unchanged. Among those scenes are Varys and Gilly protecting the children in the crypts (although there are many fewer undead), Ed and Beric dying, Sam being nearly buried by wights, and Davos watching Melisandre die. Oh, and Lyanna Mormont and the giant!


	3. Episode 804 - The Last of the Starks - Part 1 of 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very hard chapter to write, and I am still not that happy with it. It became apparent, writing this, that there is just too much crammed into episode 4 for any of it to make sense or have proper justice done. Still, I've given it a go. I just remind myself that HBO did not have time limits on episodes, so the key is to keep the themes!
> 
> This is a very talky chapter. As with the episode that aired, the action starts in the part 2 (to be posted soon). 
> 
> I have kept the Jon/Dany scenes largely as written in the show in this half. I don't like them very much, but I didn't want to change too much at this time. Dany would be upset and shocked about Jon's parentage, and he would be confused.

**MISSANDEI**

**Winterfell - The Great Keep**

  
As the dead fall silent, the living get to work.  Women, children and other non-combatants spilled from the crypts and into the courtyard.  Some, briefly, hugged and cried, and a few defiantly went in search of husbands and loved ones, but most went straight to pre-assigned tasks.  There was so much to be done.

Missandei watched the operation with a surprised respect.  She had heard of the industriousness of the northern Westeroni, but this was the first time she had actually seen it.  These people were hard and dour, and often unpleasant, especially to her, but they were capable of working together with surprising efficiency.  She couldn’t imagine the people of Astapor doing anything like this.  Most of them would be drinking the medicinal wine, pocketing the candles and squabbling over who got to steal the clothing from the dead.

Missandei had helped Gilly and Walkon to train the women in the basic management of injuries - setting bones, applying poultices and cleaning and sewing wounds.  They had established a triaging area on the ground level of the Great Keep, and it was there that the injured walked or were dragged in.  Many needed their assistance, and the women were doing an admirable job of providing it.  Most of the injured had flesh wounds that needed cleaning and sewing, bites and scratches, but a minority were more seriously harmed.  Missandei tried not to listen to the haunting screams and desperate begging that was coming from the far side of the room, where a hastily trained carpenter was performing amputations. 

“You have done admirably, my Lady.” 

Missandei turned to see the courtly eunuch, Varys, standing next to her. His usually pristine robes were filthy and torn, and there was a smear of something black and gritty on this bald pate.

“Thank you, Lord Varys.  Although the true heroes are the people of Volantis, who have trained healers for the battlefield for generations.  It is a shame the idea has not spread further.”

“Indeed. Were that such healers were usual, but life here is cheap, and bandages expensive.”  He glanced toward the  horrifying rear of the room.  “Also, I suggest that but few of the poor souls whose limbs are being removed will thank us.”

Missandei was confused. “Surely, even a more limited life is better than no life.  Ser Jaime does well enough.”

“Ser Jaime is a nobleman with servants and a bed of gold.  Those men will be unable to use the hoes they need to grow their own food.  I am not convinced we are doing them a favour.”  He shook his head. “But if the alternative is to leave them to die, we avoid that ugliness and cloak ourselves in the illusion of compassion.”

Missandei grasped for some response, but quickly forgot as Arya Stark pushed her way through.  She was dripping blood dripping, but pushed away a young girl who came to help her with a quick “I’m fine.”  She and Varys watched as the girl had looked quickly over the injured, and apparently satisfied, that no one she was worried about was there, left.  “The Stark girl is looking for young Gendry, the bastard child of the former king,”  Varys said to Missandei. “Your Queen may be interested in that.”

Lady Brienne was next.  She had gaping wound in her cheek, and was walking with some difficulty.  She was in better shape than Ser Jaime though, who was being carried in by Jon and Podrick.   Ser Jaime had an obvious dislocated shoulder, and likely other injuries. Varys signalled for one of the older women, a crotchety but competent old thing, to come and tend him.  

“Excuse me, I must attend Lady Brienne”, said Missandei, suddenly only too happy to have an excuse to get away from Varys.  She took Brienne’s arm to lead her away from Jaime, “Come on, my lady, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Brienne nodded, and allowed herself to be led to a chair in centre of the room.  . 

“Pod, get some clean clothes, and needle and thread,” Missandei instructed the squire, nodding to an area where supplies had been placed.  He nodded and disappeared off, coming back a moment later.

Missandei used the cloth and the cooled, boiled water to clean the wound.  It was deep and jagged.  As the water hit the wound, Brienne gasped, but didn’t cry out.  Pod watched on, looking slightly green. 

“I’m sorry, Ser Brienne. It’s deep. Perhaps, milk of the poppy…”

"I'm fine, just sew it," the knight said, through gritted teeth.

The Naathian sighed, and did what she could.  Brienne went even paler as she pulled the needle and thread through the ruined skin on her cheek, but remarkably she didn’t faint.  It would certainly leave a scar, and not a pretty one.  Sadly, she suspected Brienne would care more than she would ever let on.

Brienne had other wounds, too, but when he was satisfied the worst had been taken care of he left her in the competent care of some other women.

Missandei was cleaning the blood from her hands when Ser Jorah carried in a bedraggled Daenerys, wrapped in what looked to be his shirt. Missandei cried out and rushed to them. 

“She’s alive, but hurt.”  Jorah said.  They were both covered in soot. 

“I’ll get Walkon”, Missandei commanded, “take her upstairs, someplace more private.”

 Jorah, likely injured himself, immediately headed for the stairs, Dany in his arms.  Missandei rushed to find the maester, confident that no matter what else he was doing, this would take priority.

 

**Sansa**

**Winterfell – The Great Hall**

They had little choice but to burn the dead quickly.  There were just so many of them, pile upon pile, and all in varying stages of rot and decomposition, that they needed to be cleared lest disease break out.  Many, Sansa amongst them, also couldn’t shake the deep set fear that, despite the apparent death of the Night King, the corpses would rise again.  She doubted she was not the only person who still saw moving bodies when she closed her eyes.  

The funeral had been long and emotional, but a more fitting ceremony Sansa could not have imagined.

"You spoke beautifully.  Powerfully." She told Jon that night, as they sat in the Great Hall, enduring rather than enjoying the celebratory feast.

She meant the compliment, too.  Never had her brother seemed more kingly that when paying tribute to those fallen. 

"Thank you, Sansa," Jon said wearily. 

“It must have been hard. Especially after losing Sam.   I know how close you two were.”

She could see the pain on her brother's face.  "I told him to stay in the crypts, but he refused, and he paid the price for it.  He and Edd, their deaths hurt worse than a knife to the ribs".

_If those rumours are true, he would know_ , Sansa supposed.  

"And Gilly...?"

Jon shook his head.  Gilly had been distraught when she heard the news.  She couldn’t get Gilly's frantic, mournful wailing out of her head.   _Hers, and so many others._

Sansa wrapped her arms around Jon briefly, and then noticed Daenerys' watching them.  The Dragon Queen was sitting proud and rigidly straight, despite having what Sansa knew was a deep stomach wound.  Despite herself, she was impressed with the woman's fortitude.  She nodded briefly in greeting, and then left Jon to her.  The last thing her brother needed tonight was to put up with the two of them snarking at each other.  The mood in the room was uncomfortable enough. 

Sansa surveyed the Great Hall carefully, gracefully moving between the tables.  Laid out was what passed as a feast these days - a butchered aurochs, salted potatoes and winter greens with whatever herbs the cook could find.  It wasn't much, but their stores were not such that they could afford to waste food.  The drink, however, was offered liberally, and she hoped that as more people imbibed, the mood might lift a little and make the sacrifice of the meat worth it.   At the moment, most of the people in the room were sitting in small, quiet groups.  There were plenty of empty chairs.  Even setting aside the dead, many people were still to injured to attend, laid up in their rooms or makeshift infirmaries.  Brienne had begged out of the feast, claiming injuries and exhaustion.  Ser Jaime was missing too, although Sansa could guess where he was. Arya was nowhere to be seen, either, although again, that was hardly a surprise, particularly as Gendry had vanished as well, directed somewhere by a surly Sandor Clegane.  The Hound was sitting miserably in a corner, so he at least was here.  She has no idea where Bran was.

A small party of Knights of the Vale were huddled on a back table, drinking and talking among themselves.  Youn Royce sat to one side, nursing a large ale and a fearsome black eye.  He nodded at Sansa and caught her gaze as she passed.  She moved over to him and slipped into a chair beside him. 

“My Lady,” he greeted her. 

"My Lord.  I am sorry for your losses. So many fine men."

"Aye," Royce acknowledged sadly. "These are sad times.  But we have prevailed, and I feel better for the death of my younger boy, knowing we have put his killers to rest."

Sansa frowned sympathetically. "Yes.  I can imagine it is a bittersweet feeling.  We appreciate your aid.  It must have been a difficult decision, to put your men on the line for Winterfell, again.  We could not have done this without you."  

“It was not so hard a decision, when you consider the alternative."  Royce took a long drink, and then turned his head to meet her eyes. "You, also, are no stranger to making hard decisions, my Lady.”

Sansa eyed him cautiously, running her mind through a catalogue of incidents to identify the one to which he was most likely referring.  “You speak of the Battle of the Bastards.”

He nodded. “Aye.  I have learned some interesting things these past days.  You did not tell Lord Snow that we would assist you.  Why?”

She detected no hostility in his word, only interest, and definite respect.  “I did not know that you would arrive in time,” she said slowly.  _Be careful._

“But time is what you make it.  Had you advised Snow we were coming, he could have changed his approach, delayed the initial confrontation.”

Sansa fixed Royce with a cool look. “And then Ramsay would have known that something was awry.  He was cruel and overconfident, but no fool. If he had known he was outnumbered, he may have stayed inside the Winterfell walls.   We would have been forced to besiege the castle, over winter.  It would have been over before it began.  And, as I said, you may not have come.”

"An interesting gamble, because if we hadn't, your brother would be dead." Royce looked at her keenly.  

"My brother was determined to attack.  He was dead if you didn't come, no matter the strategy.  I chose an approach that had the best chance of success if you did come."

Royce appraised her with what could only be respect.  “It was a ruthless strategy, my lady, and it doomed many men.  But it was not unwise”.  He took a long drink. "The blood of the first men runs in your veins, Lady Sansa. You are a true woman of the north. Do not forget that.”  

She can't help but notice that Royce's eyes drift to Daenerys.  The message is clear:  _we choose you._

"I won't forget it," Sansa said carefully. 

A moment passed between them.  And then Royce said, "I have had too much to drink, my lady.  And I intend to drink more, until I forget the pain of these past five years.  Please, forgive me. "

Sansa recognized it for what it was - time to take her leave. 

"There is nothing to forgive, Ser Royce," she said firmly. She stood, and he lifted his mug to her, a sign of respect, and took another drink.

  

**ARYA**

**Winterfell – the Stables**

 Arya sat and stared into the dwindling light of the lantern.  Her head still hurt, but it was easily ignored. She'd had much worse.  

_What to do now?_  She was aware that Daenerys wanted to march south and begin her conquest. The upside would be that it would get the queen and her people out of Winterfell, but the negatives were that Jon and most of the men would be going with her.  The idea of an invasion held little appeal for Arya.  The prospect of taking on Cersei however...

“M’lady,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. 

She turned to see Gendry standing in the doorway, holding what looked to be a large plate of roast meat.  The smell hit her nostrils and her stomach growled.   _Gods, it has been a day since I’ve eaten._

“You're not at the feast,” he said, cautiously stepping into the stables.

“I don’t like feasts,”  Arya replied.  "Sansa expects me to be nice to people at feasts."

Gendry smiled. “I know you're not one for company, but you must want some food?”  He held out the tray. “Good munch.  I've brought you some.”

Arya looked Gendry up and down.  He was a bit bruised around one eye, but otherwise looked to be in surprisingly good shape for a man who had yesterday swam through a maelstrom of human-eating wights.

“Smells good,” she said.  “But it's nothing like one of Hot Pie’s pies.”

“Aye, I doubt these northerners know that trick with the butter.”

They laughed, and Arya reached over to take a slice of the meat.  It wasn't too bad, all things considered. 

Arya asked, "you’re friendly and like talking, why aren’t you at the feast making friends?”

“It’s all a bit miserable in there.  Tense I don’t understand the politics, but I can tell somethings goin' on.  ‘Sides, you’re here, and that’s where I want to be.”

Arya stiffened. “Gendry…”

“Hey, wait.  I don’t expect anythin’, really.  Not even more … um, you know.  I know you’re high born lady, and I’m a bastard ‘n all.  But, we’re get on well, and you seem to like me and I like spending time with you, and as long I don’t have too high expectations, what's the problem?”

“I'm not a lady.” Arya said, between mouthfuls of meat.

"But you are high born, ain't nothing you can do 'bout it."

That was true, and not true.  She  _could_ have done something about it, become  _no one_. But when push came to shove, she hadn't wanted to.  She was a Stark, and she would be for life.

She looked up at Gendry.  His wide, open face was looking at her with longing.  She was not what he needed, at all, and in no way could this end well.  But in that moment, she decided she didn't care.  She pushed the plate of meat aside, and reached up to grab with face.  Her fingers were sticky with meat juice, and no doubt her face was messy too. She kissed him, and pushed him back into the straw, determined to show him just how not a lady she was.

 

**BRIENNE**

**Winterfell – Brienne’s Chamber**

Somewhat painfully, Brienne threw another log on the fire, then looked up at the sound of a knock on her door.   She took a deep breath, opened it and was not surprised to see Jaime. 

He leaned against the wall, a carafe pressed under his right forearm and two cups in his left hand.  He was possibly trying, and failing, to look casual, but it was equally likely that, given his injuries, he needed the help of the wall to stay upright. 

“You look terrible,” she said, by way of greeting.  He had a black eye, bandaged arm and a limp.  _But even scruffy and bruised, he still looks beautiful._

Jaime grimaced.  “Likely broken ulna, definitely broken collar bone, at least two broken ribs, significant bruising to the chest and back, stitches in my thigh, a black eye and a lump the size of an apple on the back of my head.  You?”

“Well, the obvious,” she blushed, and touched the bandage on her cheek.  “Stitches in my chest, a likely broken rib, stress fracture to my wrist and more bruise than skin."

“I win.”

He pushed himself off the wall, stood and shuffled his feet nervously for a moment, and then, without asking, walked past her into her chamber. 

"It's hot in here," he complained, almost instantly. 

Brienne stood at the door for a moment, confused but definitely not upset.  She'd never had anyone other than Pod and the serving staff in her chambers before, and a ripple of excitement and anticipation run through her. She shook her head and closed the door behind him. 

“I promise I won’t try anything," Jaime said, as he awkwardly placed the wine and cups on the small table in her room.  

“I can handle myself,” she replied.

He looked up at her.  "Good for you.  At the moment, I'm barely winning at walking." 

He picked the carafe up with his left hand and clumsily poured a cup of wine. A few drops splashed onto the table.  He’d already helped himself to a drink, or three, on the way here.  He held the cup up to her. "I thought you might want a drink..."

She tentatively took it. Their fingers brushes and she felt a ripple of desire tremble them, up her arm to her stomach.  _Steady.  Don't get too excited._

"Good," Jaime said, as she took the goblet. He sounded slightly breathless. "We fought the dead and survived.  If this isn't the time to drink, when is?" 

_When indeed?_ It was strong and sour smelling. Dornish.  Someone, probably an entitled Lannister (or two) must have raided the Stark's cellar.  

She took a sip, but the resulting pain in her mouth was so intense she almost spat it out. Her cheek burned terribly when the alcohol touched it.  She's been trying not to think of the wound, and being reminded of it caused an even deeper ache in the pit of her stomach.  Jaime, however, didn't notice.  He was too busy trying to pour himself a cup of wine without spilling it.  His left hand shook. 

Brienne swallowed the lump in her throat.  "You seem really nervous," she observed with a small smile.

"I do, don't I?"  He answered, his voice strangely husky. "I am really fucking terrified." 

He wasn’t the only one.  Brienne's heart was beating so fast she felt it would leap from her chest.

She reached over and took his left hand.  It was warm, slightly clammy. "Jaime..."

He looked up and met her eyes, and she could see in them both intense longing, and deep uncertainty. 

Then he looked away. "Fuck.  I am not drunk enough for this."

She felt her stomach drop to her feet.  "Oh..." 

Unbidden, the awkward, self-doubting demon in Brienne raised its head and roared.  _Of course, he isn't drunk enough to kiss me._   _Who would kiss me unless they were literally blind drunk?  She raised her hand to her marred cheek._  But the thought was gone before it could take hold, the look of panic that flashed across Jaime’s face confirming it was ill-founded. 

"Wait,”  he stuttered, “No, no, no... I didn't mean…what I want to say is…”

“Oh, for Gods sake,” Brienne’s groaned. This was ridiculous. As endearing as it was to see Jaime lost for words, for once, she was running out of patience. Amazed at her boldness, she leaned over, and pressed her lips to his. He shut up immediately.

Having never kissed anyone before, she had no idea what she was doing.  But she must have done something right, because Jaime kissed her back, licking her lips, encouraging her to open her mouth, and deepening the connection.  He brought his hand, still clutched in hers, up to grab her face, and then the back of her head. It was a long time before they parted, and when they did, Brienne couldn't help a small laugh.

“You promised me that kiss.”

He smirked. “A Lannister always pays his debts.  Thanks for reminding me.”

She smiled shyly. "It was really nice.  Strange, but nice."

"Strange?  Nice?" He scoffed. "Just what every man wants to hear."

He kissed her again. This time she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, feeling the thrill of his body pressed to hers.  She felt his arms around her in turn, strong and a little, delightfully, needy, and then suddenly painfully tight.

"Ouch!" she gasped. He pulled away immediately, and she blushed.  "Damn, sorry, broken rib..."

He laughed. "And there I was, choosing to ignore you cracking mine..."

She hit him gently. They stood there for a moment, the room heavy with anticipation.  Then Jaime said, breathlessly. “I should go.  Before I start something we both might regret.”

Brienne looked at him squarely.  “You don’t have to.  You can stay, here.” She knew she was blushing, furiously. “We definitely won't do anything I am going to regret.”

Hardly able to believe what she was doing, she reached up and began to pull at the ties on his shirt.  But he caught her hands in his left hand and pushed them away.

“Brienne," his voice was higher and tighter than usual.  "Please.  Everything else I have done in my life, I have fucked up.  I want to do this right.  You’re the heir to Tarth, the most honourable knight I have ever met, and I love you.  I am not going to bed you until we are married.”

Brienne's fought a wave of indignation.  Was he really turning her down?  She felt the immediate, tortuous suspicion of rejection, the certainly that she was not desirable enough.  But then her mind quickly moved to the second part of the statement. She was sure her heart stopped. 

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

Jame looked somewhat stunned too. “I suppose I am.  That wasn’t very romantic was it?”

It was the most romantic thing she had ever heard.  Her heart swelled and burned. 

“It will do.” She smiled. “Yes, I will marry you.”

"Really?"  This time it was Jaime's turn to look completely shocked.

"Of course.  But we have a lot to discuss first, including Cersei,"  She watched him flush.  _But not tonight_.  "In the meantime, I appreciate your honourable intentions, but please stay.  I doubt either of us can do anything more than sleep without re-displacing bones, and even that's doubtful.  I would just like to hold you tonight. Please."

Jaime looked nervous again. "Your reputation..."

"Is perfectly safe.  There is unlikely to be a single person sober or even awake enough tomorrow to care."

He smiled, nodded, and said "I am at your service, my lady".  And then kissed her again. 

 

**JORAH**

**Winterfell – the Great Hall**

 

"Vomiting is not celebrating," Jon sputtered, trying to push the huge drinking horn away.

"Yes, it is," Tormund responded, laughing heartily. Sansa, standing next to him, was grinning in support of the wildling.

Jorah watched the younger people from his position next to Dany. She sat, straight and rigid, not participating at all, her face stuck in the same smooth, emotionless expression all night. He momentarily entertained himself with the possibility that Dany was beginning to realise that Jon Snow was a crude, immature child, but the rational part of him accepted that was unlikely.  Something more was going on between them. He just hoped most of the rest of the room was too drunk to notice.

Tormund turned, and raised the horn in the direction of Dany.  “To the Dragon Queen,” he cried.

Dany, clearly shocked and surprised to be suddenly included, smiled. The crowd cheered, and Jorah joined them. Tormund then thrust the horn at Jon, and said “the toast is to your woman, now you have to drink!” 

_Cunning bastard._

Sansa laughed.  Jon groaned, but drank from the horn.  Jorah felt a tinge of sympathy.  He knew from experience on his sojourn beyond the wall that the drink was truly disgusting, like milk that had gone off in the sun.  Jon spluttered, and Tormund slapped him on the back, nearly pushing him face-first into the table.

_This is my Khaleesi's choice of consort?_

Daenerys stood up, somewhat painfully.  Jon saw what was happening and attempted to get to his feet so he could help her, but Jorah was already there, offering an arm.  She steadied herself on it, threw him a warm smile, and then raised her own glass. "To Jon Snow and Arya Stark, the heroes of Winterfell!"

This prompted more cheers.  Jon gave Daenerys a smile. 

_They_   _should probably thank Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne too_ , Jorah thought.  But the Kingslayer’s name was as likely to get a boo as a cheer, even under these circumstances, and Dany would never congratulate him for anything anyway. Jon said nothing either. The room had begun to develop a good sense of cheer, why ruin it?

Jorah felt a lingering guilt.  He and his Valyrian blade should have been there with the Night King as well, but he did not regret for a moment saving Dany instead.  It had all worked out in the end. 

They had not yet discussed what had happened on the battlefield, and he suspected they never would.  When he had tried to bring it up, Dany had given him a look that told him he was not to speak of it again.  That didn't stop others doing so, though.  Jorah had already been asked by the loud-mouthed wildling whether his Queen was immune to fire. Truth was, he didn't even know.  He did know, however, that she currently had a deep wound in her stomach, that she was in pain, that she was uncomfortable among these people, and that Jon Snow should be getting her back to their chamber right now. 

"He climbed on a fucking dragon and fought,”  Tormund boomed. “What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon? A madman or a king!"

Jon laughed. “The kind whose Queen taught him how to do it!"  He responded, beaming again at Dany.  

That, at least, won the boy some grudging respect from Jorah. 

"Are you well, Khaleesi?" he asked gently. 

She nodded, but she looked drawn and tired. 

"Speaking of queens, where my big woman" Tormund yelled, disrupting Jorah's thoughts.  The wildling was looking dramatically around the room. _It's_ _as if he thinks making her the subject of that attention would appeal to Brienne of Tarth,_ Jorah thought with amusement.

"She's resting in her rooms, Tormund,"  Sansa said, firmly, stepping in front of him gracefully. "She's injured."

"Yeah?  Maybe she'd like a little distraction from the pain..."

Sansa didn't move.  "She wouldn't."

Tormund’s eyes look around the room again, and then realisation seemed to dawn in his mind.  "Where's the sisterfucker"

Sansa raised an eyebrow at him, and Tormund’s face fell.  He turned away, and with a great dose of drama, seemed to seek consolation from a clearly uninterested Sandor Clegane. 

"...after all that, this fucker comes north and takes her from me,” Tormund complained. “Just takes her, like that. I mean it, Clegane. My heart is broken."

Clegane, concentrating on his drink, clearly couldn't care less. "Fuck off and die," he muttered.

Jorah stiffled a laugh, and wondered whether it ever occurred to Tormund that Brienne wasn't his to take  He decided probably not.  A wildling man who wanted a woman simply took her, if he could, not unlike the Dorthraki.  He was passingly intrigued as to whether Tormund was going to hunt down the Lannister heir and do  something - that would be entertaining, if nothing else - but then Sansa maneuvered a very pretty girl in front of Tormund. 

Now _that_ was interesting.   _Where did Sansa find her?_

Tormund did a double take at the sight of the girl. She simpered at him. “I thought wildlings just took what they wanted, when they wanted it…” She thrust her chest forward.

Tormund blinked, “That we do," he drawled, appraising the girl and her expanse of uncovered decolletage. "‘S what makes us so frighenin’” .

“I’m not afraid of wildlings…”

“Maybe you should be…” 

Jorah looked away quickly and tried to block the rest of that rapidly deteriorating conversation from his senses. He was hugely relieved when, moments later, Tormund and the woman left.  Ser Jaime was probably fortunate the wildling got over heartbreak fast. But he remained intrigued by how Sansa pulled the distraction off.  She seemed to be introducing another woman to a highly intoxicated knight of the vale on a far table.

Jorah looked around the room.  It was emptying, slowly.  Tyrion was playing that ridiculous drinking game, with Brienne’s highly intoxicated squire, a laughing Davos, a mischievously grinning Missandei, and a very uncomfortable looking Grey Worm.  Elsewhere, the Hound sat by himself, also drinking.

Jorah caught Jon's eye and looked, warningly, at Dany.   _Take her away now_ , he tried to say.  Jon nodded, clearly drunk, but not yet stupid.  The boy stumbled over to Dany. "Our guests are nearly too drunk to notice, let’s get out of here,” he whispered to her.  Dany gave him a look that confirmed that she couldn’t agree more.  Jorah helped her to her feet, noticing her heavily she learned on him, and passed her to Jon.

Sighing, Jorah watched his Khaleesi go.  Then he went over to join Tyrion and the others, where he was greeted with a hearty, albeit drunken, cheer.

 

 

**SANSA**

**The Great Hall – Winterfell**

The girls had been in poorer establishments outside the city walls, and in some cases in their father’s or brother's homes.   They were attractive, clever and ambitious, and now they were hers. As the party wound down, she introduced them to men around the room.  Which men they were introduced to was always their choice, but she hoped to build a relationship with these girls such that they would trust her to make that decision in their interest.  

Sansa watched as Sandor dismissed the girl she sent to him with a curt “don’t touch me.”  He went back to nursing a large mug of ale and a gloomy frown.

Sansa gave the rejected girl a consoling smile – although likely was she relieved anyway – and then made her way over to the Hound.  He looked up as she approached.  She glanced at the seat opposite him, and he nodded. 

"She could have made you happy, for a little while," Sansa said as she sat.

He snorted.  "There's only one thing that'd make me happy." 

"And what would that be?" she asked.  

He glowered. "That's my fucking business."

Sansa raised her eyebrow.  "I think I can guess."

"Can you now?  Well, not worth the trouble."  He looked up at her through the greasy, dank mess of hair that hung limply over his devastated face. Where that face used to terrify her, now it only inspires a strange, warm affection.

He seemed to guess her thoughts. "Use to be that you couldn't stand to look at me."

She had been a child then.  A silly child, innocent and idealistic and stupidly, callously cruel. 

"I've seen much worse since," she says gently.

So much worse. Her father's head on a spike.  Joffrey going purple, although that wasn't so bad.  Littlefinger's ugly scheming, and the blood spouting from his neck when Arya ended it.  Her aunt screaming as she fell through the Moon Door.  Every tortuous moment of her time with Ramsay.  The walking dead. 

"No doubt," Sandor grunted.  Then, "you could've avoided it all, had you come with me."

Sansa smiled softly, and looked down at her hands briefly.  "Maybe.  But I was a child, Sandor.  A scared and confused child.  A little bird, being forced to sing. I made the choices that I did with the knowledge I had at the time.  I'm not going to second guess those decisions, because if I start, I will never stop."  

She can't help the slight hitch in her voice at the end. 

Sandor grunted, and nodded. “I know how that feels.” He stood up. "You want to know what would make me happy, little bird?  Smashing my brother's skull into a paste would make me happy." 

And with that, he left, leaving Sansa staring after him.  

  

**JON**

**Winterfell -** **The War Council**

Holding a war Council the night after a drunken feast had not been one of Tyrion's better ideas.

Jon and Tyrion looked at the map of Westeros, and each other, with frustrated concern as their council bickered around them.   This was not going well. 

Everyone was in a foul mood.  Those who had been drinking were hungover and grumpy as a result, and those who hadn't been drinking, which was basically just Dany and Grey Worm, were reacting to the bad mood of those who had. Sansa and Dany, in particular, were not bothering to disguise their now obvious dislike of one another. 

For his part, Jon would rather have been anywhere but between them, but his foggy brain wasn't working fast enough for him to get out of it.

"The men are tired, and injured,"  Sansa was saying. "If Cersei really has engaged the Golden Company, they will be there before we are, no matter what we do.  There is no rush.  The troops need to rest."

Dany’s eyes narrowed.  “I came north to fight alongside you at great cost to my armies and myself.  Now that the time has come to reciprocate, you want to postpone?”

Sansa's eyes flashed. “It’s not like that.  Not at all.  I want to be free from Cersei as much as anyone.  But we have lost over half our men.  Many of the rest are injured, and all of them are tired.  If we move south, we will do so without many of our most experienced soldiers and most of our experienced leaders.  I don’t understand why we can’t just wait.”

Tyrion looked between the two women with some concern, then to Davos. "Davos, you're the only one here with naval experience.  How long will it take the Golden Company to get from Essos to Kings Landing?"

Davos shrugged. "Ser Jaime said she'd sealed negotiations with them two months ago.  If they acted fast, and they usually do, they could already be there.  If not, we'd be bettin' on maybe another month."

"Well, that's not good,"  Jon sighed. “They'll already be entrenched by the time we get there no matter what we do.  I suppose we can force march the troops down, but that rarely ends well...”   

"If we stand here and do nothing, they will have more time to familiarize themselves with Kings Landing," Grey Worm countered.  "And more time to build defenses and allies." 

“We have another challenge, too,”  Varys interjected  “We do not have the resources for a long siege.  Food stores are in poor supply…”

“Which is all the more reason to leave now,” said Grey Worm, "before the situation gets worse."

And so it went on. 

Eventually, when he had really had enough, Jon suggested that they call an end to it.  

“We are all tired”, he said. “And several of us are, frankly, not at our best.  We have heard each other’s arguments.  One more day won't make a difference.  Let’s think on them and reconvene tomorrow."

Dany and Grey Worm looked disgruntled, but they nodded.  "Very well, we will adjourn and reconvene on the 'morrow,"  Dany said. 

She gave Jon a disappointed look, and left with Grey Worm, Missandei and Jorah in tow. 

Tyrion lingered behind, and then approached Jon, shaking his head.

"You should talk to my brother."

Jon continued to stare at the map.  "Why would I want to talk to him?"

"Because he is the former commander of the queen's forces, because he knows Kings Landing like the back of his hand, because he might be in an uncharacteristically good mood this morning, and because he is here. Go give it a try."

"Fine."

Jon found Jaime standing on the battlements, watching over the yard, where Brienne was drilling a tired group of soldiers.  He looked quite a bit worse for wear, but a slight smile graced his face.  Jon approached him slowly.

"I remember talking to you beneath this very wall a decade ago, when you were heading for the wall", Jaime said, as Jon approached. "I seem to recall I was an ass.  I almost always was back then."

Jon shrugged.  "After the night king, all is forgiven."

Jaime gave an amused snort.  "Wildlings, Stannis' former hand, Mormont, an insane red witch with a propensity for burning people, the Hound, my brother, me...this does seem to place to let bygones be bygones."  He turned to face Jon, revealing a battered and bruised face to match the bandaged body.  "What do you want, Snow?"

Jon decided to be honest. “You are probably the most experienced Commander this side of Kings Landing.  I could use your help.”

Jaime turned back to the wall.  “No doubt, but I’m not offering it.”

“You won't fight for us against Cersei."

It was a statement, not a question, but Jaime answered anyway. "“No. Had it been necessary to defeat the dead, then yes, I may have.  But I am not interested in replacing my queen with yours."

Jon nodded.  "I appreciate your honesty.  Although if that is the case, why are you still here?”

As soon as Jon had asked, he realised he didn't have to.  Jaime's eyes went immediately to Brienne, where she lead a training exercise below.

“Brienne is sworn to the Stark girls.  I intend to stay with her.”

“And what happens when we reach Cersei?”

Jaime sighed and audibly ground his teeth.  The knight clearly did not want to discuss this at all, and certainly not with the likes of Jon, but after a moment's consideration, he apparently decided he may as well.

“I loved Cersei.  I still do.  But what she has become?  I cannot support that.  She has slowly and surely alienated almost every person who was loyal to her, myself included.  She's dangerous and duplicitous.  But we have been together our entire lives, and I can't just forget that.  I may not be able to help her anymore, but I also can't fight her, Snow.  I won’t.”

Jon ground his teeth.  He didn't like Lannister and didn't particularly want him there, but Brienne and Tyrion both trusted him, at least to a point, and he trusted them.  The knight had also taken a great risk to come north and fight, and played a pivotal role, and Jon hadn't been lying when he had said he warranted forgiveness for that. 

Jon understood, too, being conflicted.  He couldn't have killed Ygritte. 

He tried another tact. 

“Would you be prepared to talk to her, on my behalf?”

Jaime contemplated the question.  “Maybe, but would what I say?  It won’t matter anyway.  She won’t listen to me.  Cersei only hears what she wants to.”  He paused. “Although if we had something she wanted, maybe."

Jon nodded.  "Then help us get something she wants, or something she is prepared to negotiate for.  She can’t win this war, Lannister, you know that.  All she can do is drag it out.  So either we take her out decisively, or you talk her into surrendering."

Jaime gazed over the balustrade, at the preparing army. No doubt, he could hear the ominous sound of dragon's wings in the distance.

Finally, he nodded. "Golden Company or not, Cersei is probably doomed. Still, people, men especially, constantly  underestimate her.  She has been in bad positions before, and she has always, _always_ , triumphed.  Asking me to go and offer her life, or even that of the child, in exchange for surrender is pointless, because she will never believe it will come to that."

“I suppose you have a better idea?"

Jaime painfully pushed himself off the wall.

“Look, Snow, I'm telling you this because I am currently suffering from an attack of conscience.  It's an unpleasant, although worthwhile, side effect of being around Brienne.  Westeros is bleeding.  The things I saw when I was travelling north – fields overgrown and unplanted, dead livestock, burnt out farmsteads. Someone has to put an end to this shit.  I told myself for years it would be Cersei, but maybe it will be you.

"Problem is, you’ve lost half your army already. You might be able to seize Kings Landing with your dragons and your freakish soldiers, but you are not going to be able to hold it.  The people will revolt - look what happened with Tarly.

"You want to win the crown, you and your beloved Dragon Queen?  How about you start doing something Cersei could never do, and win over the people you want to rule?  Protect them.  Prove you’ll be better rulers than Cersei.  Better than bloody Robert, and Aerys for matter. Then maybe they'll help you.  Or maybe they won't.  But at the very least we might all still have some bloody food to eat in a month."

Brienne appeared to have finished in the yard below, and Jaime turned away, presumably to go find her.  The conversation appeared to be over.

"Think on it," He said, as he went to leave.

Jon nodded.  "I'll do that."

 

**TYRION**

**A tavern outside of Winterfell**

“So,” Tyrion said slowly, taking a large drink of the not half-bad ale. “Let me get this straight.  You proposed marriage to her?”

Jaime drew in a breath. “Yes.”

"Even though she was offering to ..."

"Yes."

“And you intend on following through?”

Jaime looked offended, “Of course!  Although, it turns out that because she is heir to Tarth, no septon in their right mind will marry us without her father’s permission.  It's...frustrating."

Tyrion swallowed a laugh with a cough. "I bet."

Jaime waved his golden right hand.   "I need your help to write to him…Tarth, that is.”

Tyrion shook his head.  His brother had never been particularly good at writing with his right hand, and the scrawl he produced with his left was highly unlikely to impress a future father-in-law.

"Of course," he laughed. “I'll try to be appropriately obsequious.  This is so amusingly pathetic.  You, brother, are seriously smitten.”

“Yes.”  Jaime said, without rancor. “Go on, say something else snide,”

Tyrion would have very much liked to have done just that, but he couldn't actually think of anything more to say. “If this is what you want, I’m happy.  I’m happy that you’re happy." After a beat, he then added, "and also I’m happy that you’ll finally have to climb for it. Do you know how long I’ve waited to tell tall-person jokes?” 

The brothers laughed, and Tyrion held up his cup. “To climbing mountains.”

The door opened, and they both jumped.

“I knew you were fucking her…” came a familiar voice. 

To the astonishment of the both of them, Bronn stood in the door, grinning manically.  “Two tall, blonde toffs.  Must be like lookin’ in a mirror.”

Jaime started.  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Getting’ warm.” Bronn swaggered over the fireplace, and stood in front of it, wiggling his hips. “Fuck that’s good.  Me balls were about to freeze off.”

“I doubt you came all this way just to warm your arse in front of this particular fireplace,” Tyrion observed.

"You doubt right."  Bronn snorted. “Year after year, I’ve shovelled Lannister shit, why would I be here for any other purpose?”

Both brothers shrugged.

“Only this time, the business is your sister’s.  She gave me an interesting job.”

“What job?” Tyrion asked, feeling a cold shudder run through him.

“Travel to Winterfell, offer me services to me good friends, the Lannister brothers, get nice and close to them, and then make it look like a couple of girls happened to be involved in a nasty accident or two.”

Tyrion’s hand clenched his cup.  Jaime stiffened. “What?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Lannister, you crippled cunt, do you want me to use small words?  Your sister wants me to kill your wenches – the redhead and the blonde.”

Jaime was almost halfway out of his chair before Tyrion put a hand on his arm, urging him not to do anything stupid.  He caught his brother's eye. _Wait_. 

“And what did she offer you for this?” Tyrion asked calmly.

“Offered me Riverrun. Nice big castle, good lands, plenty of peasants who'll do what they’re told.”

“And you trust Cersei?”

Bronn snorted. “I knew your sister was dead the second I saw them dragons. Now, your army may be torn to shit, but I’d still bet on your Dragon Queen to win. And it just so happens I’m a betting man. If Cersei’s dead, she can’t pay up."  he gave a half-hearted grin. "‘Sides, I may be a cold-blooded sellsword, but I got some lingering affection for the two of you.  Plus, you owe me anyway.”

“What do you want?” Jaime asked.

“I want what Cersei promised me, and what the both of you cunts have promised and not delivered for years.  I want Riverrun, or the equivalent in gold.  And, despite everything, I still 'ave more faith in you to give it to me than your big sister.  And, as a sign of me good faith, I’ve just saved the lives of your respective women.”

Jaime looked at him curiously, clearly trying to work out just how far he could trust Bronn.  Tyrion decided to play it straight.

“Thank you, Bronn.”

“I don’t want your thanks, half-man.  When this is all over, I want your money.”

Tyrion nodded.  "Done, if we can." 

Jaime nodded in agreement.  He looked dazed, and distant, and Tyrion realized he was in something of a state of shock.  Was he still so bloody blind about Cersei that this surprised him?

“What will you do in the meantime?” Tyrion asked. “We could find a position for you here…”

“Fuck no.  No cunt in Westeros is hot and wet enough to keep me in this frigid hellhole.  But I’m stayin' away from Kings Landing, too. That's about to get too warm.  I’m going to be far away when you lot destroy each other.  But, if you survive, I’ll come find you when the war is done. Till then, don’t die.”

 

 

**JAIME**

**Winterfell - War Room**

The meeting with Bronn the night before had given Jaime something of a wake-up kick.  He should have known that Cersei would not just let him go, but he had not realised just how far she was prepared to go to extract her misguided revenge.  

Jaime and Tyrion had spent the night discussing Bronn's appearance, and Jaime now, albeit reluctantly, had agreed to help the broader effort. He really had no choice now that Brienne's life was potentially at stake.

He stood around the map with Tyrion, Jon and Davos.  

“Alright, Snow, here’s my advice." Jaime said. "A march straight on Kings Landing is high stakes.  It might work, it might not. You are assuming that Cersei has no plan but to await an attack.  I doubt that is the case  She is acting in a manner designed to provoke you.  That suggests to me that she wants to be attacked."

"So what do you suggest?" Davos asked. 

"Don't be provoked. And be prepared," said Tyrion.

Jaime continued. "Your attack on the Gold Road won you a significant victory over, well, me.  But it also resulted in the destruction of much of the grain from Highgarden and the West.  Food is going to be in short supply soon.  If you are to march the army south, or conduct a siege, you must find some way to feed it.  And if you simply rampage through the countryside, and particularly if you let the Dothraki do that, you're going to drive people into Cersei's hands."

Jaime looked to Tyrion, who took over.  

"Do as her Grace suggests, and start heading south. Jon, you and Davos will ride down the King’s Road to King’s Landing with your northmen, the Dothraki and the Unsullied.  Start by securing Moat Caillin.  Then move south, slowly but surely, ensuring you take the strategic positions on the way, and maintain supply lines.  That will give us time to ensure the men are rested, and many more here will also recuperate. 

"I'll accompany her Grace to White Harbor and then to Dragonstone.  We will send word to Yara Greyjoy to send what she can of her fleet and meet us.  We understand that her uncle's fleet is in King's Landing."

"And what will you do?" Davos asked Jaime.

"Send Brienne and I to the Twins, with a small force.  Maybe Clegane too.  We’ll seize it.  The Freys are nearly gone, thank fuck, so we won’t need many men, and I am hoping not to fight at all.   Once properly garrisoned, it’s in a strong position.  If you win, you can use it to bribe a friendly family afterwards.   In the meantime, the lands need governing and the people need safety if food is to be grown, we can provide that.  It's low risk and won't detract from your main force."

Jon looked uncomfortable. “Brienne is sworn to Sansa, she should be here with her.”

“Have Sansa send her as her representative", Jaime said. "Brienne loves that kind of thing - pretending to act in someone else's name.  You want Sansa to be Warden of the North while you play king in the South?  Help her be seen as legitimate in that role. This is the first step.  We won't take long.  Reappraise after that."

Jon frowned, still obviously not keen on offering up his sister’s sworn sword. “You won’t do it alone?”

“I have no intention of being parted from Brienne.”

Davos gave a short laugh. "When you commit, you go all in Lannister."

Jon snorted. “Does Brienne know this?”  

He thought of Tormund, who was apparently now planning on leaving and taking his people to Castle Black.  He couldn't understand what it was about the tall, plain woman that was inspiring such devotion, but it was becoming inconvenient.  

“She knows.”

Jon sighed.  "All right."

Jaime nodded, then said carefully. “I do have one favour to ask."

Davos groaned.  "Let's hear it then." 

"At some stage, you will need to take Riverrun.  There is a Lannister garrison there.  They are good, decent men, but they hold no particular love for their assignment.  Offer them the deal I offered the Blackfish - open the gates and they can go free.  They can start walking back to Cersei, or even back to the Westerlands."

"Let them go free, to join the enemy army?" Jon was incredulous.

Jaime shrugged.  "We all know that when you take on King's Landing, a few dozen Lannister soldiers will not make any difference.  Agree to that, and I’ll get you the Twins, and the fields of the Green Fork and Trident for good measure.  You’ll be better resourced and supplied.  And if we succeed in bringing some peace to these lands, you’ll get the support you need."  

Jon looked at the map. "If the Riverrun men are yours, why don't you talk to them?  Riverrun would be even more useful than the Twins."

Jaime starred fixedly at the map. "They _were_ my men, Snow.  Now I am apparently fighting for the Starks.  You know what they call me.  Oathbreaker, man without honour.  Now I have swapped sides. Do you seriously think that if _I_ made them an offer, they would believe me?"

An uncomfortable silence fell. 

Tyrion sighed.  "Well, anyway it’s a good plan.  Her Grace gets to take action now, but not with undue haste.  The fleet travels to Dragonstone, and main host down the Kings Road, but we’ll take a steady pace and see if we can win support on the way.  It gives the men time to rest and us time to re-provision. And every day we wait,  Cersei has to pay for her troops."  

Jon nodded.  "Let's see if we can convince Her Grace, and the others."

 

**QYBURN**

**The harbour – Kings Landing**

 

On the docks at the harbour in Kings Landing, Qyburn stands serene and calm, watching as a massive ship glides smoothly into the port.  Once docked, the gang plank is dropped, and Euron steps down, grinning like a mad man.

“My Lord,”  Qyburn inclines his head slightly in the direction of the Greyjoy captain. “It would appear you have succeeded.” 

The queen’s hand does not seem entirely pleased. Euron grins even more broadly.

“Did you ever doubt me?”

He steps out of the way, and a tall figure in long robes emerges behind him.  The man has a bald head, and blue lips.

“Tell the Queen that an emissary from the House of the Undying is here to see her.  And he’s brought a little magic.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved, loved, loved the Jaime/Brienne get together in the show, but I had to change it in this to make some longer term plot points work.


	4. Episode 804 - The Last of the Starks - Part 2 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone is increasingly reckless...

**JAIME**

**Winterfell - the Walls**

It had been decided.  The Dragon Queen and her army were moving south.  
  
Jaime watched Daenerys' host prepare to leave with a sense of relief. Although he largely trusted Tyrion's judgement, the Targaryan girl and her mismatched band of soldiers made his skin crawl. Granted, they  _were_  marching south to Cersei, and that could not end well for her, but he was choosing not to think on that now. He had a month or so to determine what he could do about his dear sister and their possible cub.  _I'll improvise when the time comes._  

In the meantime, he was going to do something useful - bring some peace to the Riverlands and the Neck.  He'd raised the problem of the lordless, and lawless, land with Cersei over a year ago, only to have her instantly disregard it as some far off irrelevancy.  He'd been frustrated by her reaction at the time - if bringing peace and security to the smallfolk wasn’t what a monarch was meant to do, he wasn’t sure what was -  but he’d done sod all about it, other than send up a couple of half-trained units that she'd never miss, under the command of a friend he would.   _Gods, I was so fucking weak._  Well, he was fixing that now.  He could even tell himself that, in doing so, he wasn't causing any actual harm to Cersei...  _Other than potentially handing the Riverlands to Jon ...and through him the Dragon Queen.  Or back to bloody Edmure Tully, if he’s still alive._

Edmure.  One man he didn’t relish seeing again.  Jaime had arranged for former lord of Riverrun to be moved to Darry, just prior to the Lannister abandonment of Casterly Rock, and he assumed he was still there, hopefully with his wife and baby.  He had no way of confirming this, Darry being held by Lannister forces who were unlikely to want to talk to him at present. He supposed Jon would take Darry, too, soon enough, and he'd get his answer then. 

Jaime must have looked conflicted, because he felt Brienne's fingers reach for his left hand, and squeeze his palm gently. A quick show of support.  It surprised him.  She was an intensely proper knight, not given to affection in public, even simple ones like this. He squeezed her hand back. 

"Well, that's done then," said Sansa, interrupting Jaime’s thoughts as she turned from the wall.  "And not a moment too soon. We have barely enough food to carry the north through a winter, let alone feeding ... well, whatever that was."

"That," said Arya, with a smirk, "was your Queen and her army."

Sansa's response was an unladylike snort.   
  
Jaime shot a quick glance at the Stark women.  They obviously had no love for Daenerys, although he doubted either of them had much love for any person born south of the Neck.  They were women of the north, hard and insular and not to be messed with.  He struggled to remember the little girls who had come south with Robert’s progress, so many years ago, Sansa destined to marry Joff and Arya apparently keen to make trouble.  Beyond a pale blue dress, a couple of wolves, and some trouble involving the Hound, he failed.  He'd had his own issues back then.

"You will, of course, miss your brother, my lady" Brienne said, trying to change the subject.

Sansa’s answer was typically emotionless. "My  _brother_...yes.  Well, I will worry about Jon, of course, but his loyalty is to his Queen."

Arya snorted again.  Brienne looked confused. Jaime could sense there was something more going on in this conversation, but he couldn’t yet grasp it.  He hated politics in general, northern politics even more so, and family politics the most.  _Stay out of it,_ he told himself. 

Sansa now turned to look at him. "Sir Jaime."

"Lady Sansa," He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow as he answered her.  They had an uneasy arrangement, both rivals and allies.  They stood meters apart, with Brienne in the middle, shuffling a bit uncomfortably, not unaware that she was the focus of their little influence competition.

"It is time that you leave too,'" Sansa said. "As you are taking my sworn knight with you, I only ask you to be careful."

He nodded. "Of course I will, My Lady."

Jaime glanced at Brienne and gave her a half smile. He knew she was not entirely happy with the turn of events.  She took her oath to Sansa seriously, and thought she should be by her lady’s side. But Jaime was selfish enough to want her with him, notwithstanding her vows to the Stark girls, and he’d made arrangements accordingly.  He rather relished the idea of being outside the castle walls with Brienne, riding through the countryside, away from bloody Sansa, even if they were being accompanied by Pod, a troop of dour northmen and the bloody Hound. 

"I will return as soon as possible, my Lady,"  Brienne assured Sansa. 

Sansa smiled back affectionately, "Arya will be here.  And Jon is right, if I am to have any credibility among the northern lords, I need to start doing something about the chaos that is destroying our lands.  Opening up the causeway, and particularly the trade routes to Seagard and Riverrun, is a good first step."

Brienne nodded. "Yes, my lady."

Jaime bowed slightly.  "We'll send word from the Twins once we have it".

 

**JON**

**Winterfell - the Courtyard**

Jon gently patted Gilly's hand, as she cried messily into his shoulder.  He had no idea what to say to her.  No words could bring Sam back, and none could provide much comfort either.  Worse, with the Nights Watch gone, and the Wildlings heading for Castle Black, she was soon to left isolated and alone among strangers in the ruins of Winterfell. 

_This situation is fucked._

Jon decided to focus on practicalities. "Will you stay here?"  he asked her gently.

Gilly gave a tremendous sob, and then shook her head.  "I don't know. Sam's sister Talla is heir to Horn Hill now.  She will likely marry in time, but they invited me to come and live with them, before, before...his dad ... "  she sobbed louder. "And maybe they will again.  Me and little Sam and ... and the new baby!"

She burst into a torrent of tears again, and Jon cautiously put an arm around her, clumsily patting her on the back.  He was terrible at this.  He needed Sansa, or some other woman.  No, he needed Sam.  No one could provide comfort like Sam. 

 _This is all wrong,_  he thought.Gilly was clever, and literate, and had walked nearly every step of that maester path with Sam. She should be an assist, not a burden to be foisted on some unwilling foster family, and she could certainly do better than the Tarly's kitchens.  Surely he could find something for her to do?  He vowed to talk to Sansa about it, or even to Wolkan. But, unfortunately, he couldn't do that now. 

He held Gilly for a long time, as they reminisced about the good times with Sam, his quirks and his kindness and his moments of brilliance, even as Jon silently cursed his friend for being so stupidly, stubbornly brave as to get himself killed. 

_Why didn’t you just stay in the fucking crypt, Sam?_

It was a relief when the army started to file past the gates, and Jon could make his apologies and leave.  It was only when he was well outside the walls that he remembered that Gilly, too, knew about his heritage, and he hadn't even asked her to keep it a secret.  Others must know as well.  It couldn't be a secret for long.  

 

**JORAH**

**The King's Road**

His Khaleesi looked pale as she mounted her horse for the ride south. Jorah watched with concern as she stifled a yawn and placed a hand protectively over her side.  He hoped the wound wasn't festering.  

Frustratingly, Dany had refused to discuss the events of the Battle of Winterfell with him, and he suspected that Jon had not had much more luck either.  _She lit a blade with her blood_ , Jorah kept thinking.   _Drew upon the fire within her._ His memory of her wreathed in flames haunted him.  He did not think it possible to either love her more, or be more frightened for her.  _Or even, perhaps, be more frightened of her._

When Dany finally spoke, she was as commanding as ever.

”I will accompany Tyrion, Varys and Grey Worm and half the Unsullied to White Harbour,” she said. "From whence they will take a boat to Dragonstone.  We expect Yara to meet us. I will join them at Dragonstone in due course, but it is important that I be seen at the head of this liberating army, and so from White Harbour I will return to meet Jon and the remainder of my army in the River Kingdoms in preparation for the march on King's Landing."

Varys inclined his head in agreement, and brought his mare alongside Dany. "Gods willing, you will see the new year from the balcony of the Red Keep, your Grace."

Tyrion rode his horse alongside Varys, "It is also important I pay a visit to Lord Manderly, and ensure we secure his ongoing support.  The Manderlys declared for Jon, but their attitude toward you is less clear, your Grace.  A visit to his Mermaid Court, and some unsolicited flattery of old Wyman Manderly, should cement us the port, for now."

Dany nodded vaguely.  She did not care for any northern lord or their politics, and gave Tyrion a near free reign on that front.  She had other concerns, and was still simmering that she had ceded the strategic argument to Jon, and delayed their march on King's Landing.  Jorah knew it had cost her, personally, to make that concession, and apparently she still did not like the idea.  Jorah, however, quietly agreed with Jon that a steady march south was the wise move.  It made no sense to besiege a city with no supply lines and a famine on their heels. 

 _She has always been impatient_ , Jorah thought.   _But she has not usually been so reckless._

But he kept that point to himself.  He kept to himself, too, his concerns about the obviously cooling relationship between Dany and Jon.  Much as Jorah did not particularly like the Northern bastard, as things stood he was necessary, and for reasons that went beyond mere manpower.  He lacked her dynamism and fortitude, but he was more cautious, more understanding of other points of view, and much better at building a consensus. He actually understood the north, which hot-blooded and tempestuous Dany could never do.

 _She a conqueror, not a courtier. N_ ot _a consolidator, either._

But Jon was a consolidator. Tyrion a courtier. Together they made a good team.  _And what am I?_  A bodyguard, he supposed. Albeit an increasingly aged one. 

They traversed the Kings Road together for several days, across the barren, bracken-covered moors of the north, Dany's dragons flying leisurely above them.  It was ugly land, harsh and unyielding, but at least here, along the road, things were still functional.  Smoke trailed from the rooftops of the scattered hamlets and crofters cottages and the odd wagon trundled along carrying its load. Off the road, to the west, the east and the south, the situation was apparently a lot worse.

Jorah said goodbye to his Khaleesi when she and her chosen companions headed east toward White Harbour, and he and Jon headed south. He hated leaving her, but his role was a military one, and the Mormonts and Manderlys were not allies.  Jorah watched the awkward, stilted goodbye between Jon and Dany from a distance, wondering what had happened between them.  There was no physical affection in their parting, not even a deep exchange of words.  Tyrion showed more affection to Jorah than Dany did to Jon.

After that, the trip south was surprisingly easy.  The Knights of the Vale had sworn allegiance to 'the King in the North', and ceded Moat Callin to Jon immediately.  Local lords paid their respects.  A few young men signed up. The north remembered Cersei, and her betrayals, and it was on the move.

The dothraki army, however, was another matter. Most of the experienced khals were dead, and the younger bloodriders were less disciplined, more violent, and not in the least inclined to follow Jon or Jorah.  For the most part they stayed in line, excepting one occasion when Jorah had to pull a couple away from a crofter's daughter, and another when one helped himself to a pig.  But the Dothraki were loyal only to Dany, and obeyed only her commands.  Jorah knew that if one day she did not return, he could not control them, and the north would bleed. 

 

  **JAIME**  

**The Riverlands**

The small company of Jaime, Brienne, Pod, the Hound and two dozen northern soldiers left Winterfell that afternoon, bound for the Kings Road, then the mouth of the Trident, then the Twins. 

The northern soldiers assigned to Jaime began the trip far from happy to be commanded by the one-handed Kingslayer, but each one was chosen for his association with the Riverlands or his dislike of the Freys, and so they were willing to accept the situation, whether for the greater good or the sweet taste of revenge.  

The journey was expected to take over a fortnight, due largely to the appalling state of the road, or lack thereof.  Banditry, and a shortage of goods, had reduced trade to a minimum, and the flat causeway that had previously been used as a road was marshy and overgrown from misuse and neglect.  The weather was dreadful too.  Snow and the sleet alternated with a dreary, drizzly rain.  The northerners didn't mind the weather, and Sandor seemed to cope, but Jaime, Brienne and Podrick were frozen. 

Away from the Kings Road, the countryside was a distressing site – ruined farmsteads, empty barns, overgrown fields.  It got even worse as they approached the Riverlands.  Most buildings were ransacked, some were burnt, and in a disturbing number they found bodies. Surprisingly, it was often Sandor who suggested burying them, and he insisted when the bodies were of children. 

Less regularly, they would come across a homestead or hamlet that showed signs of recent habitation, be it washing in a pail, or the remains of a poor meal, but the people were always gone.

“Hiding,” Jaime noted on one such occasion, his foot nudging the still glowing embers in a firepit.

“Nothing good comes from strangers here,” Sandor agreed.

At night they would typically find shelter in an abandoned building.  It was an eye-opening experience for Jaime, having rarely been in a smallfolk home before, and never a rural one.  They were small, simple affairs, whole families living in quarters smaller than the Lord Commander’s receiving room.  Still, once a fire was going, they were warm, even cosy.   In the evening the men would share stories and drinks, and as the days continued, they became more comfortable with each other.   By the end of the first week, they had even warmed to Jaime enough that they shared a half-cooked hare with him and laughed at his stories about the court life, and particularly about Robert.  Brienne, still shy around strangers, sat alone, but smiled at his tales.  The Hound lurked in the shadows and brooded. 

 _I like this life_ , thought Jaime.   _Far more than I have ever enjoyed life at Court._

Each night he would unroll his sleeping mat within arms’ reach of Brienne’s.  Occasionally, they would lie close enough that he could feel the heat of her breath. They never touched, not with so many men around, and with the risk that any show of emotion or feminine softness would undermine Brienne's authority.  Still, as Jaime drifted off to sleep he often entertained the idea of the two of them as wandering hedge knights, writing wrongs and killing brigands.   _Goldenhand the Just_ , they would call him.  And  _Brienne the Bold_ , for the beauty of her heart and her indefatigable courage.

Dreams aside, killing brigands was something they were doing quite a bit of.  Splitting into smaller groups and looking vulnerable drew out the brigands, inviting their rapid demises.  They also located several larger bands of outlaws, one in a ruined keep, another in a vandalised farmstead, a third squatting in a gutted sept.  They had slain and hung every one of the brigands, no matter what the colour of his cloak or the refinement of his speech.  The third group were particularly vile, holding two terrified and traumatised farm girls captive.  Sandor had castrated those men before stringing them from trees, and Jaime had not intervened. He'd watched with pride and love as Brienne comforted the girls, and then returned them to their village.   

“I do not know to what life I returned them,”  she said sadly to Jaime that night, as they lay facing each other near the fire. “Men are unforgiving of women who have been despoiled, no matter how blameless. ”

He couldn’t disagree. He thought of poor Tysha.  Tyrion would forgive her, although she had done nothing that needed forgiveness. 

The arrived at the Twins shortly after.

The two towers were one of the most impenetrable fortresses in Westeros.  It would be near impossible to take either by force, and only a fool would try.  Jaime was the first to admit that he had, indeed, once been a fool of that kind.  But no longer. This time he was determined to use his brain and charm to get the castle. 

Camped outside the gates when they arrived was another motley band of brigands, perhaps a dozen, wearing cloaks of crimson and grey both.  They appeared to be undertaking a half-baked siege,  _more akin to just waiting,_ in the hope that the inhabitants of the Twins would run out of food and have to let them in.

“You’re wasting your time,”  he called to them, from the back of his horse. “They have months worth of provisions and fresh water aplenty.” 

The brigands all looked up. 

“Who the fuck are you?” said one, a large nosed brute.

“That’s Jaime fucking Lannister,” said a second, in a red cloak, standing and drawing his sword.

“There’s a price on ‘is head!’  said a third.

The men drew their weapons and began to advance. 

Jaime shrugged. “Are we really going to do this?” he asked. “I’m on a horse, you’re not. I’ve got friends, you don’t…”

“Don’t see no friends," said the third again. 

As he spoke, Sandor and Brienne led their respective parties over the small hills and straight at the brigands.  They were easily dispatched.  Jaime sat and watched, grinning.  Yes, he liked this life much, much better than Court. 

“You talk too much, Lannister,” said the Hound, as he made his way back, wiping his bloodied sword on his horse.

After that display, it took little effort to convince the inhabitants of the Twins to surrender.  The nominal Frey heir was a toddler, his many elder brothers having died from poisoned wine at a feast.  His spokesperson was his step mother, little Kitty Frey, meek and shy and somewhere in her teens.   _Frey did like them young_. She was terrified, and told Jaime she had seen a ghost murder the Frey men - "a foul wind, my lord, with many faces, including my Lord husband’s, and that of a girl".  She was too afraid to ever enter the great hall again.

The Hound had laughed at the story.

"Do you know something I don't?" Jaime asked, wondering what could be so hilarious about a ghostly killing wind.  

"I knowsome _one,"_ he said, and left it at that.

Kitty Frey's seneschal was a harder man, rough spoken and rougher looking.  Likely drafted into the position from someplace lower in the pecking order after the massacre, overwhelmed but no fool. 

Jaime negotiated with him in good faith.  The young lady was to cede the wardship of her stepson to Lord Snow, who would appoint a suitable representative to oversee the castle.  The women could stay, pending new marriages.  Two of the older, unmarried girls, would travel to Winterfell as hostages.  Jaime didn’t delude himself that anyone at the Twins actually cared about the girls, or their fate, but there were traditions to maintain, particularly in these parts, and the negotiations gave the young Frey wife some dignity.

Kitty smiled nervously.  “Shall I kneel my Lord?” she asked, once the negotiations were complete.

“Just sign and we’ll say you did,” he winked at her, and she blushed. She signed on behalf of her stepson, her script not noticeably less childish than a toddler's.

Jaime felt Brienne’s presence at his back as he countersigned, and he was sure she smiled to. And why wouldn't she?  They had won, with no loss of life - well, other than the brigands, and while they were a kind of life, they were no loss.  The causeway from the Twins to Winterfell was clear. 

Jaime sent the Hound back to Sansa with the good news, and a request for a well equipped garrisson.   He sent a rider to Jon too.  Sansa could send any additional men down to the Twins to join Jon at Riverrun, and then leave with the rest of the army when it headed south. 

“That was impressive,” Brienne said later, as they sat in his chambers, enjoying a reasonable wine and passable cheese from the Frey's cellar. 

He snorted “I negotiated with a scared child and an ignorant old man, it is hardly the cloth of legend.”

“You did so kindly, and gave them their dignity. I think we have won allies, not just a castle”.

Jaime grimaced. “The Freys aren't allies worth having." 

He helped himself to a slice of the cheese. Brienne had, helpfully, cut it for him. She did little things like that for him all the time, never making a fuss.

Truth be told, he'd wanted to celebrate his bloodless victory a bit more heartily, but Brienne would have disapproved of any wasted food.  He'd insisted on a good stew for the men though. There were plenty of lonely Frey women happy to serve it, so no doubt the men were getting to know their new hosts a bit better too.

"I am trying to give you a compliment, Jaime," Brienne said, teasingly. "Stop arguing".

"Thank you," he said roughly.

At that, Brienne gave him one of her rare, warm smiles.  Her eyes were soft, the pupils dilated from the wine. 

_She really does have astonishing eyes._

Brienne leaned across the table and kissed him gently, a simple touch of the lips.  He immediately groaned, wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, and deepened the kiss, enjoying just being alone with her.  The fortnight's ride had not afforded them much privacy, or him any chance to touch her.  She responded to his eagerness in kind, their kiss becoming a battle of tongues and lips.  He pushed the table out of the way with his stump, and pulled her into his lap.  She was almost too big for this, but it didn't matter, the feel of her weight in his lap was agonisingly arousing anyway.  

Brienne worked her hands between them, her fingers going to the ties at the top of his shirt, which she begun pulling at urgently.  He froze and pulled away. 

“Brienne…” he begun. His voice hitched, and drew in a deep breath before continuing.  “We've discussed this.  I don’t want to dishonour you."

She shook her head. "You won't.  But even if you did, I don't care."

"But..."

She raised her finger to his lips to silence him, and fixed him with a steady gaze.  “I’m not a child or a chattel Jaime.  I make my own decisions about what I want.  And I want you.”

He took another shaking breath.  He wanted her too, desperately, but, "I don’t…I don’t want to create another bastard.”

There, he'd said it.  He could hear the shame in his voice.  Not shame for the fact of his children - well, maybe a little for Joff, but never for Myrcella and Tommen - but shame for the circumstances under which they had been born. Shame for not having been a parent, for not being  _able_  to be a parent, for how this treasonous relationship with Cersei had torn an entire kingdom apart.  And now there may be another baby, growing in Cersei's womb, another of his cubs who we would likely never know. He felt shame about that too - coupled with longing and a desperate, horrible confusion.

He was pulled backed to the room by the feel of Brienne's hands on his chest, her fingers seeming to burn though the linen of his shirt.  She was breathing quickly too, her face flushed.

“I know,” she whispered sadly.

He swallowed. Brienne’s eyes were fixed on her fingers, where they tangled with the ties on his shirt.

“Apparently there are things we can do, other things, that don’t make a baby…and I'll still be a maiden,” she continued, shyly, hesitantly, although broaching some great secret. She was too embarrassed to meet his eyes. 

It was such an incongruous thing for Brienne to say, that Jaime laughed.  He couldn't help it.  She was so innocent at times, such an odd contrast to the hardened, stone cold warrior she could be at others.

“Who told you this?” he asked.

She blushed.  “Arya Stark.”

“Arya Stark? You discussed  _us_ with Arya Stark.” He was unsure whether to be more amused or horrified. 

“I didn’t discuss it so much as she volunteered it…”

“How old is -  no never mind, I don’t want to know.”  He laughed again.  “Gods, women.”

She took the opportunity to kiss his again, smothering his laugh.  He responded in kind, the idea of doing  _other things_ now fixed in his mind.  Then her hands were at the base of his shirt, pulling it up insistently.  He lifted his arms, and let her tug it over his head. He stood, breathless, and watched her as she removed her own shirt, unlacing it slowly and then letting it fall to the ground. 

Jaime  released a slow, shuddering breath at sight of her small, high breasts. Cautiously he reached out to touch one, watching the nipple harden and pebble beneath his fingers.  She gasped, and bit her lip, and looked back at him with nervous eyes. 

"I've never been with a man before," she whispered. 

 _Gods_ , he was glad of that.  He had no idea what he was doing. 

"I've only ever been with one woman," Jaime replied, slowly. "I only know ... well, I don't know what will please you.  I'll try, but you'll have to tell me."  

She nodded. "Please show me."

It was all the invitation he needed.  Weeks of being with her, near her, almost touching her but not quite, had worn down his resolve.  No matter what her father said, he wanted her, and she wanted him, and what was so wrong about that?  He pulled her flush against her, hips and stomach and chest and mouth.  He pushed her back toward to bed, shuffling, determined not to loose contact.  Oh, he was going to show her as many  _other things_ as he could, response from her father be damned. 

The next morning, they set off together, eyes a little red from lack of sleep.  They shared a secret, soft smile as they rode barely inches apart, listening to Pod sing.  

Jaime left a small garrison, and they headed to Seagard.  And then, Riverrun. 

 

**TYRION**

**New Castle – White Harbour**

  
Wyman Manderly may once have been a great bear of a man, but these days he resembled a walrus, all tusk-like white beard and rolls of blubber.  
  
“I assure you, my Lord Hand,” he was saying, jowls quivering, as his sausage-like fingers pulled apart the remains of an unfortunate crustacean. “On my oath as a Northman, I have stayed true to Jon Snow, the King of the North.  I dare any man who claims otherwise to say it here, in the Merman’s Court, to my face, so that I, or perhaps one of my strapping young squires here, may cut the lying tongue from his mouth."  
  
_Manderley might sound more convincing were he not dripping wine and spitting chewed crab,_  Tyrion thought.   _And the so-called strapping young squires would look more fearsome if old enough to grow a beard._  
  
But he didn’t give voice to either thought.  Instead he said: “Lord Manderly, we are not questioning your loyalty to Lord Snow.  We are pointing out that Lord Snow is sworn to Her Grace, Queen Daenerys, first of her name, and protector of the Seven Kingdoms.  In the circumstances, given you are a sworn bannerman to Lord Snow, we consider it appropriate that you affirm your loyalty to her Grace, too”.  
  
Lord Manderly’s beady eyes narrowed. He turned to look at Daenerys directly.

Dany's party had, much to Lord Manderly’s misfortune, arrived to find Lannister ships docked at White Harbour. Now it fell to Tyrion, a Lannister himself, to question Lord Manderley about his associations with his house.  
  
The conversation was an uncomfortable one, and made even more so by the absence, among Dany’s entourage, of any northerner with any relationship to this man.  Indeed, other than Tyrion, there were no Westerosi at all.  Manderly was a proud northerner, and swearing allegiance to these strange people, with their odd accents and clothing, probably felt like having teeth pulled. The only reason he would do it was the two dragons leisurely flying overhead.  
  
“Your Grace,"  Manderly addressed the Queen directly, his tone very formal, despite the spittle and the grease.  "I have been loyal to the Starks since before you were born.  I have sacrificed a son for them, at the Red Wedding no less, and I would do it again if need be.  I have placed myself at great risk, personally, obfuscating and deceiving such men as Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow, for them. I have bent the knee to the Starks, as their bannerman, and I hold to that oath.  If the Starks bend their knee to you, of course I will do so too.  Although you must forgive me if I do it only in a metaphorical sense. My knees can barely carry my weight while I sit and I do believe that if I got down before your Grace, I would not get up.”

Tyrion's mind was whirling.  _The Starks. He speaks of the Starks.  Not_   _Jon_.  _Does he know too?_ Tyrion could not help the growing feeling of paranoia.   _Sansa told me, did she tell anyone else?_  
  
Tyrion's mind fought to remember his prepared placatory words, but Daenerys Stormborn was in full flight, and beat him to a response.

“I do not care about your oaths and your Honour or indeed your knees,"  she said. "Is it not the case that when the Freys killed your son, you vowed to live on bread and wine until you had your vengeance, but were dining on clams and cakes by evening? Words are wind, Lord Manderly, yours especially.  I do not want words, I want action!”  
  
Tyrion cringed inwardly as the ruthless insult.  Manderly had gone a deep red colour, and he now resembled a beetroot more than a walrus.  To his credit, the Lord of White Harbour’s  voice remained very calm.  
  
“We do not all have the strength of will of you, my Grace, nor the luxury of your principles.  I meant well by that vow, but my grief over my son's death caused me to want to eat more.  I am weak.  But, please, hear me out.  You have not asked why the Lannister ships are here – “  
  
“I do not care-“  
  
“Don’t you?”  He licked a stubby finger, and took a sip of wine. “They are here only to trade, and not with me, but with the merchants who ply their wares in my city.  I have never restricted trade, your Grace.  White Harbour is poised on the edge of tundra, it cannot feed itself, so if we do not trade with the south, we may starve.”  
  
“And what do you trade in return, Lord Manderly?  Boats?  The ships that will be used to kill us?”  
  
“Aye, in the past, but not recently. We now trade salted sardines and fish sauce and pickled lampreys.  Furs too, to keep delicate southron asses warm in the coming winter.  But food is the commodity of choice now, your Grace.  Food is what we will need, and the Lannister have salted beef and bacon and root vegetables that will last through a winter."  
  
“I can see that food would be a matter of great importance to you,” Dany said dryly.  
  
“Food is important to everyone, your Grace.  Without food we die.”  
  
“Some sooner than others.”  
  
“Indeed,” Manderly agreed. He laid down his utensils, and looked at her keenly. “But, clearly, you are not persuaded by my arguments.  So, tell me, what exactly is it that you want me to do, your Grace.”

Tyrion could feel the fury radiating off his queen, like light from a candle.    
  
“I want every Lannister, merchant, soldier and envoy removed from this city by sundown.  I want their ships seized, so they cannot be used against me.  I want their merchandise confiscated, for use in the war.  If the comply peacefully, they can leave the city and walk home.   If they complain, remind them what happened to the Tarleys.  If they resist, kill them.”  
  
Manderly’s eyes flashed, but only for a moment.  He got control of himself quickly.  "You wish me to do this today?" he asked incredulously.

"My men and I leave tomorrow, so it must be today."

Manderly sighed deeply, and wiped his hands on a napkin.  “As you wish, your Grace.”

He did not look pleased. If anything, he looked scared.  

 _The prospect of famine is not the greater terror. My Queen's rage is._ It was a sobering thought.   
  
They left shortly thereafter, Dany having volunteered the 'assistance' of the unsullied to cleanse the city.  Tyrion held his tongue until they left the Mermaid Court, but once they were back at the docks, he fixed his queen with a firm, disappointed look.  
  
She met his gaze proudly.

“You believe I have acted foolishly,” she surmised.  
  
Tyrion sighed.  ‘Your Grace…”   _Where to begin_? “I believe you acted in a way that will not win us friends.”  
  
“I’m not here to make friends, Tyrion, I’m here to make a kingdom.  I cannot have our allies disrespecting us and treating with our enemies.”  
  
“Yes, your Grace.  But what Lord Manderly said was not untrue.  Food is becoming scarcer, and this city will not survive without appropriate stores.  Those stores must come from the south.”  
  
“If food is in such short supply, why is he gorging himself?” She demanded.  “When we seize King’s Landing we will gain control of the Lannister’s stores, and we can ensure that it goes where needed.  Which will not be Wyman Manderly's stomach.”  
  
There was no purpose to be served in arguing.  “Of course.”  
  
Dany gave Tyrion a final, appraising look. “Make sure this city is properly garrisoned before you leave for Dragonstone.  I will meet you back there in a fortnight.”  
  
Tyrion obeyed her orders, as best he could.  The Lannister ships were seized, their crews set to walking. Between the cold, the chaos and the fact they needed to get through the rest of Daenerys’ army, it was a good as a death sentence, particularly for the merchants.  But he did it.  He tried very hard not to look at any of the men, lest he recognise one.    
  
“She may as well have burned them and been done with it.”  Varys sighed, as they discussed Manderly, and Dany, on the ship to Dragonstone many days later.  “At least they would have died warm.”  
  
“I didn’t tempt her,”  Tyrion said. “She was angry that Manderly did not send troops to the Battle of the Bastards.  I suspect she sought to punish him by punishing the enemy."  
  
“She wasn’t there, and knows nothing of the situation.  Had Manderly sent troops Euron Greyjoy may well have helped himself to White Harbour.”  
  
“Tell the Queen that.  She just thinks he endangered Jon’s life.”  
  
Varys released a long breath, and raised an eyebrow.  “Impending slaughter aside, expelling the Lannisters may not be such a bad thing.  Some of them were certainly spies, news was getting back to Cersei, particularly about our movements at Dragonstone.  Still our Queen is getting disturbingly impulsive."  
  
"Or just annoyingly self-assertive."  Tyrion poured then both another wine.  _If we are going to be treasonous, we may as well be drunk_. "Are you expressing doubts because you now have an alternative?"

Tyrion was already regretting sharing the secret of Jon's parentage with Varys.  What was it about this secret that compelled the sharing of it?  
  
"No,"  Varys said slowly.  "But we need to consider what to do with this information. I have thought of nothing else for days and I am still confused.  If Sansa has told you, she has likely told others. Her sister, the Tarth woman, Royce.  Words are like wind, Tyrion, they travel far and light. Perhaps eight, or a dozen know now.  What do you think will happen when hundreds know?"  
  
"She looses the north, she looses the Vale.  Sansa will make sure of that."  
  
"No, it's worse, he has the better claim to the throne.  She looses Westeros."  
  
Tyrion frowned. "Does he?  His claim depends on Rhaegar having lawfully put aside Elia Martell.  Elia was a princess from Dorne, her reputation beyond reproach. She gave him two children, one a son, and then he apparently, secretly, sets her aside to marry Lyanna Stark?  The evidence for this is some records from Old Town, dug up by Jon's best friend, now dead, and a vision of his half-brother, or cousin, who we claim can look back in time.  Do you think there might be a problem with selling this to those who don't know Jon?  To Dorne?"  
  
Varys shrugged.  "It may not matter.  The fact is, people are drawn to him.  Wildlings, northman, even Lannisters.  He is a war hero and an inspiration and he makes people feel good about themselves.  The people will believe it if they want to, whatever the actual truth."  
  
"That reputation is not entirely deserved,"  Tyrion pointed out. "His battle strategies have generally been disastrous.  Hardholme was a massacre, Sansa and the Knights of the Vale bailed him out at the Battle of the Bastards, the wall fell to both wildlings and a dragon under his watch.  But you are correct, what he does do is bring people together, that much is clear."  
  
"Which is precisely what we need in a monarch at this time,"  Varys opined, as he took another sip of the wine.  
  
"He doesn't want the throne."  
  
"Again, I am not convinced what he wants matters."  
  
_Maybe not_ , thought Tyrion. Why does anything any of us want matter?  He thought of Cersei, and the chaos she has wrought to get what she wants.  _She was not given a choice, so she took it._  
  
Perhaps there was a better solution?  "He loves the queen.  She loves him.  If we marry them, they can rule together."  
  
"She will not share power with him, and he will not marry his aunt." Varys said, clearly unimpressed by the option.  
  
"As you have said so often today, it may not matter what either of them  _want_.  They are the last of the Targaryans.  They have found each other, at this time, as Westeros, kingless, spirals into chaos.  She birthed three dragons, and he defeated the Night King.  Whether it is coincidence, or destiny, they are hurtling toward that throne together.  Our job is to make sure they do not destroy everything in their path.  It we have to force them into an unwanted marriage, that is a small price for us, them and the realm to pay.   
  
Suddenly, the ship shook, the familiar sound of wood grinding on sand.  
  
"I think we're here," Tyrion announced, making to stand up.  
  
The ship shook again, and the sound of screaming men and cracking timber falls from above.

"So, it would seem, are our enemies" Varys observed. 

 

**SANSA**

**Lord's Chambers - Winterfell**

Sansa put down the scroll, and hoped that Arya did not notice her shaking fingers.  Although the news was good, she couldn't shake the feeling that everything was tumbling toward some great and inevitable catastrophe.   
  
"What's the news?" Arya asked. 

Sansa's younger sister was balancing a knife on one finger, then throwing and catching it in the most dangerous way possible. It made Sansa's stomach churn.  
  
"They're winning," Sansa said. "Moat Caillin was ceded by the Knights of the Veil immediately, White Harbour has pledged support -"  
  
"- after our Queen threatened to burn Wyman Manderly like a lard candle unless he handed over the Lannister merchants." Arya cut in.  
  
“I doubt she was serious".  
  
"Really?" Arya flicked the knife in the air in a particularly dramatic fashion, and caught it.  "I don't."  
  
Sansa frowned, and continued. "Maidenpool is apparently sending men to support Jon.  And, as you know, Sandor has confirmed that Ser Jaime seized the Twins, has opened the roads down to Riverrun.  We'll be marching another hundred men down and across to the Twins now.  They'll meet up with Jon's army outside of Riverrun.  It that falls without a fight, we've secured everything north of the Crownlands, including all the major routes for food north of the Gold Road."  
  
"It almost all sounds too good to be true,"  Arya reflected.

Sansa agreed.  "Precisely."

"You sound worried?"  
  
“It is so one-sided.  Everyone seems to be assuming that Cersei is just sitting in her tower, waiting for Jon to attack.  That seems very unlikely.”

Arya nodded.  Sansa watched as her sister flicked the knife a final time, caught it dramatically and placed it back in a scabbard at her waist. 

“Sansa …'  Arya began, and met her sister's eyes. "I can take care of Cersei.”

Arya's tone was cold and serious.  Only a year ago Sansa would have laughed out loud at such a claim. These days, she didn't doubt it was true.  She felt a cold shiver run down her spine.

"How?" she asked.

Arya met her eyes directly.  "Do you know what happened to the Freys?"

"I've heard what people say happened, that winter came and avenged us."  Sansa said. "But I also know that you had something to do with it."

Arya nodded.  “You know about my faces.” 

Sansa nodded, although she preferred not to think about it.  She remembered finding the bag of ...  _them_  ... in Arya's room.  Sansa did not know much about magic, or faceless men, but she wasn't stupid either.  There was something dark, sinister and deadly about the contents of that bag, and about Arya too.

“I had a plan, for Cersei,”  Arya said. “I conceived it some time ago, when I saw Jaime at the Twins, after he recaptured Riverrun.  I thought, I could kill him, take his face, get close to Cersei and kill her.  I almost did it, too.  I remember staring at him, thinking about plunging the dagger into his throat.  But then I didn't.  I longed to get home, more than anything i just wanted to be back here, and there was something about Jaime that day that suggested he would have welcomed it.  I don't do mercy killings."  

Sansa’s fingers gripped her chair, but she said nothing.   _What has happened to you, Arya?_

“Then Jaime came north, and I thought: here's my chance.  He was never on my list, but he's no great loss.  I still hold that view, but it turns out that he is important to Brienne.”

Sansa nodded. “I will never understand why, but yes.”

“That is the only reason why I haven't taken his face,” Arya said simply.  "I cherish the idea of sliding my blade into the bitch Queen while she thinks I'm Jaime, but, if only because of Brienne, if I can, I will find another way.  A different face.  But I will kill Cersei.”

Arya's gaze was cold, emotionless, deadly serious.  Sansa starred back at her sister. She wondered if maybe she was shaking. 

"Why are you telling me? Why not just go do it?”

“Because you are my sister, because we are the last of the Starks, because I don't intend to just walk away from you, perhaps never to come back, and leave you wondering,” Arya replied.

“There is also Bran.”

Arya met Sansa’s eyes.  “I think we both know, that’s not Bran.”

She did know, yes, but that was something else Sansa didn't want to think about. 

“Do you want me to try to talk you out of it?” Sansa asked, finally. 

“No.  You can't anyway.”

"When are you going?"

"The Hound is leaving tomorrow.  He has unfinished business in King's Landing, too. I will ride out with him."

Sansa nodded.  If she knew one thing about her sister, it was that she couldn’t change her mind.  So Sansa stood up, walked around the table, and, after only a moment's hesitation, embraced Arya hard.

A moment later, Arya hugged her back, too.

“Good luck, little sister," Sansa whispered.

“You too Sansa.  Be fierce.”

 

**ARYA**

**Arya's Chambers - Winterfell**

“That was … “ Gendry stuttered, gasping, clearly lost for words. “I don’t even know what  _that_ was.”

He lay sprawled on the bed, naked, panting, sleek muscles gleaming beneath the thin layer of sweat.  Arya grinned, and crawled up his body to kiss him, before sliding off, feet landing silently on the cold floor. 

 _I going to miss him, miss this,_ she thought, gazing at him fondly.

It still surprised her that she felt - that could feel - such affection for Gendry.  All \this time, everything she had been through, the years of training to excise unwanted emotions, he still stirred the same waves of affection in her that he had when she was a scrawny, on-the-run child. 

 _He stirs waves of other feelings too, now, though._ Far more sordid ones.

Arya could feel Gendry’s unfocused eyes on her as she searched the floor for her discarded clothes. As small and skinny and plain as she was, he obviously liked looking at her, and her keen senses could feel him drinking in every movement.   She enjoyed looking at him, too.  And pleasing him.  She’d spent enough time around brothels to know how to do that, and, like everything she applied herself too, she did it well.  

“Your sister wants to send me to the Twins,” Gendry said, suddenly, a little nervously.

Arya turned at that.  “Really?”  She hadn't heard about this.

“She, um, says I should take care of the young Frey ward there, learn how to …er, do things that lords do in castles.  And all that.  Given I’m the last Baratheon.  She says I might be legitimised, if all goes right.” 

The words poured out like a torrent of water, uncontrolled and messy and splashing across the distance between them. It was an offering to her.

Arya smiled to herself at the image of Gendry, sitting at old Walder Frey's head table, trying to be commanding.  It was cute.  _Trust Sansa to try and improve him._

"That's wonderful news, Gendry," she said, cautiously.

“I was going to refuse,  ‘cause, you know …” he stumbled over the words for a moment. “It’s a long way from you. But then I thought, if I were a lord, and I were needin' a lady and all..."

Arya made a worried face, “Gendry…”

A look of hurt flashed across his face, followed by panic, and he hurried to respond.  “No pressure…I meant it."

Arya shook her head softly, and made her way back to the bed, carrying her clothes. 

“Gendry, you need to go and do this,” she said firmly. 

"I know."  He looked scared. “But I don’t know the first thing about being a lord…”

“And that’s why you need to go and learn.”

"I just finished an apprenticeship, I don't want another one.  But I'll do it."  He sat up, raised his hand, almost reaching for hers, then changed his mind and brought it back to his side.  It was strange, thought Arya, despite the things they did in bed, and elsewhere, she had never held his hand. It was not that kind of relationship, not yet. Maybe it never would be.

 _But maybe it would._  

"What are you goin' to do while I'm there?” He asked, cautiously.

“I have something I need to do.”  She said, calmly.  “The last thing on my list.”

He looked worried. “I’ll come with you…”

She shook her head.  “You can’t."

Gendry nodded.  He didn't argue.  It was one of the things she most respected about him, the he was willing to trust.  He never tried to control or coddle her.

She took a breath, and reached for his hand.  He looked surprised as she took it. 

"We have separate paths to walk, Gendry, for a little while at least," she whispered.

He released a resigned breath, and nodded. 

"Stay alive, Arya," he said, firmly. "Or I will hunt you down and kill you again myself."

 

**JON**

**Outside the gates - Riverrun**

  
Ser Davos' stressed, worried look said it all.  
  
"They didn't accept the offer?” Jon asked, already knowing the answer. 

He'd sent Davos in to negotiate that morning, and it was only now as night fell that the older man was making his way back, across the drawbridge, to the Tagraryan camp.  The gates to Riverrun slammed shut behind him.   
  
"The Commander appeared inclined to take it this mornin’.  Said he'd be thinkin’ on it, and we had a nice lunch, and then a raven arrived.  Raven said there was some trouble at White Harbour, and now they're backing away."  
  
Jon frowned. "What trouble?"

"Don’t know.  But they believe your Queen is out for blood. They are refusing to surrender to, ‘unwashed barbarians, rapists and eunuchs’. Those were the words."  
  
Jon groaned.  This was not how this was supposed to go.  This was meant to be a straightforward surrender of the castle to his men.   Jaime had assured him it was the only sensible decision that could be made by practical men facing impossible odds.  And yet here they were, at a stalemate.

“Shit. We don’t have time for a lengthy siege.”

Davos shook his head.  “We do, but her Grace won't be pleased. You will have to make a call.  Wait it out and hope for a change 'o mind, or call it off."

Jon shook his head.  "Her Grace hated this plan.  I should have listened..."

They discussed the possibilities over a quick meal of dried meat and fruit, the knowledge that supplies were short always at the back of their minds. Their discussion was broken by cries from outside. 

“Her Grace!  The Queen!”

"Speakin' of which..."  Davos gave Jon an inquiring look, and he shrugged.  He had expected her, sooner or later.  Those dragons gave her a mobility that he found difficult to truly comprehend, despite being one of the few other people to have ridden one. 

Jon had entertained, briefly, the idea that Dany would in some way give him, or loan him, Rhaegal.  He felt a certain kinship with the calm green dragon, so different to his fiery brother. He did get to ride him, in Dany's presence, but rarely alone.  It had quickly become apparent that a dragon was not a horse, and could not be gifted.

There was a cheer from the Dorthraki as they saw their queen arrive.

Davos and Jon left the tent, and looked up.  Jon took a deep, calming breath as he watched the two huge dragons circle above.  Drogon casually glided to the ground,  some short distance from camp.  Dany, wearing the white furs she had had made for dragon riding, was visible on his back.  Jon nodded at Davos and headed over to greet his queen.

He was nervous. Nervous about seeing Dany again, about the state of their relationship.   Nervous about why she was here, now, and what she would think of the state of the siege.  Worried about whatever the hell had happened in White Harbour.  He was dreading too another argument or, worse, more begging.   _I wish you hadn't told me,_ she'd said.   _I beg you not to tell them._ Well, he wished he didn't know too, and truth be told he also wished he hadn’t told Sansa.  Giving his _cousin’s_ (how could he not think of her as a sister?) inexplicable animosity to Dany, that was probably a mistake.  Admitting as much to Dany may be the first step to seeking her forgiveness, although it would not repair the damage.  
  
Jon watched as Dany climbed from Drogon's back.  The sight of her made his heart ache and his pulse race.  He loved her, there was no doubt in his heart about that.  But was love enough?  It hadn't been with Ygritte.   _She is my aunt._ He thought of Jaime and Cersei, the ridicule and chaos their incestuous relationship had caused.  The north would likely never accept such a pairing from their monarchs.  

Although there was at least one similar pairing, in the Stark family tree, Sam had told him.  Gods, he missed Sam.  He swallowed hard against the rising grief, which still dug hard in his belly.

Dany looked tired, more so than he had ever seen her before. Her eyes were red, her face drawn.  He longed to take her in his arms, take her to bed, ease her into sleep, make her lie there and relax and ease the tension from her face, the weariness from her bones. He wondered if she would great him with love, and warmth, and open arms, and he was sure that he would not resist her embrace if she did.  He wasn't that strong.  

But, she didn't.  Rather, she stalked up to him, violet eyes flaring.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He blinked.  “Well, I’ve come to meet you…”

"No, what are you doing  _here_  at Riverrun?”  
  
Jon groaned inwardly.  "I..."  He began.  He had thought it was evident what he was doing here, although  _why_  he was  _still_ here was probably the more contentious question.  "I had word from Ser Jaime.  The Twins, and Seagard have declared for the north.  Euron will receive no succor there. If we secure Riverrun, and we have secured access to the Westerlands and the Reach - "  
  
Dany shook her head. "- this is weeks out of your way, and you have clearly been here for  _days_.  We are wasting time, Jon.  We need to take Kings Landing."  
  
Jon felt his frustration rise again.  “And we will.  But we need food, Dany, and resources.”

"We can seize them when we take Kings Landing – “

"What if the stores are empty?  Jaime says – “  
  
"Jaime says..." Dany’s eyes flashed again, as she repeated his words, a biting condescension in her tone.  "Ser Jaime is not our friend, Jon.  He is a Lannister through and through. He has also been his sister's lover his entire life.  He has constructed this detour to delay us, allowing his sister to build her strength, and you are falling for it."  
  
Jon shook his head.  "Ser Jaime has been nothing but helpful, but his motivations hardly matter.  We need Riverrun anyway, Dany.  Come winter, the only thing of any value in this world will be food.  And most of it will be grown in these Riverlands and in the West."  He swept his arm around the camp. "We are asking these men to abandon their families and travel south to help us seize Kings Landing.  For you.  I cannot allow Winterfell - their families - to starve while they do that."  
  
The look on Dany's face was one of consternation, and for a moment Jon couldn't help but wonder if maybe she  _would_  let Winterfell starve.  A cold, dark feeling sprouted in his stomach, and his world began to swim a little.

 _She is just tired and stressed, and so are you_ , he told himself.   _She has proven again and again that she cares about people.  You fears are ill-founded._

And yet, there they were.  That niggling, insistent, dreadful doubt.

It was Dany who drew a breath fist.  She sighed, and looked at the keep. "How long have you been here?”

"Three days.”

Jon explained the situation to her, the raven, the rumours about White Harbour.  She nodded.

“What happened at White Harbour, Dany?"  He asked. "Why are the men here so afraid."

She fixed him with a cold gaze.  “Nothing happened that would affect these men.  Lannister traitors were expelled from the city, with their lives. You have given these men a similar a chance, they have squandered it.”

"There is till time..." Jon began.

Dany shook her head, almost sadly.  She stood up, and headed for the door. 

"Where are you going?" Jon asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.  
  
"To end the siege," she replied.

Jon followed her out of the tent, mind confused but quite unwilling to focus.  He watched as she stalked off toward where Drogan stood.  The dragon's teeth were bloody, and it appeared that he had just helped himself to a horse.  _No one would have been willing to stop him,_ Jon thought vaguely.

He looked up at Rhaegel.  The giant dragon seemed to sense him, and looked back down.  He could signal the dragon, he may come, and he could join Dany in whatever she was about to do.  But he didn't know if he wanted to do that. Cold dread was swirling in his stomach.   _They are good men._ He could hear Jaime's voice.  Davos' confirmation. 

Drogon took off, and joined his brother in the sky. They circled for a moment, as if communicating in a secret language.  They were like birds, with their mysterious, silent dances.  Then Drogon shrieked, and he and Rhaegel both dove toward the Riverrun gatehouse.  Jon could hear men screaming, see figures running, scattering out of the way of the plummeting monsters.  Fire flew from Drogon's mouth, and then Rhaegel’s.  Masonry went flying and tumbling, the keep roof burst into flames.  The dragons then made a second pass, shattering the gate. 

Jon stared in shock.

Drogon circled, and came to a landing on the field outside the tower, heedless of the barricades and detritus scattered in the mud.  Dany stood -  _stood -_ on his back.  Jon felt panic.   _They have crossbows!  What the Hell was she doing?_   But she was unafraid. When she spoke, her voice sounded unnaturally, terrifyingly loud.

"Men of Riverrun,"  she cried.  "Your commanders were given an opportunity to surrender.  They declined it.  In doing so, they sentenced you to die for their honour. But you need not do so.  Hand your commanding officers over to me, leave your weapons and amour, and I will grant you mercy, despite your defiance.  Continue to hold out, and I will reduce this castle, and everything in it, to ash. What is your decision?"

Bare minutes passed, and then Jon could see the outline of the tall, red haired Lannister Commander and his two lieutenants, as they made their their way carefully through the shattered gate, and across the portcullis.  They wore the gaudy red and gold Lannister armour, but carried no weapons.  Their hands were in full view.  Fear was writ across their faces, along with resignation, and determination.

 "You are the commanding officers of these men?” Dany demanded, from her dragon.

 The commander swallowed.  "Yes,"  he paused. "Your Grace."

 "You declined lord Snow's offer of mercy and liberty?"

The commander raised his eyes. "The decision was mine, and mine alone, your Grace."

 "You doomed your men to die for your honour?"

 "Yes...no..."  He did not seem to know how to answer that question. "I sought to save their lives, you Grace."

"You were foolish."  Dany surmised.  "I show mercy to those who beg of it. May others learn from your foolishness.  You are sentenced to death."

The Commander drew a deep breath. "Your Grace, my seconds, they are not responsible..."

But Dany, clearly, was having none of it. She looked to each of the junior officers.  "You are Lannister officers. You have voluntarily served an evil queen, and followed a foolish commander.  If you do not question poor decisions, you bare collective responsibility for them."

She nodded to several large Dothraki, who pulled the men away from the drawbridge, over to a position between the moat and the river.

The three Lannister men stood, bravely.  They didn't run - what was the point? - or fight.   _These were the men I promised to save_ , Jon thought.  _And I have failed._

The word "dracarys" was, thankfully, lost amid the rush of air as Drogon drew a breath, and then exhaled.

Jon could feel the heat of the sudden fire blast across the campsite.  The Dorthraki cheered.

He looked away as the Lannister officers burned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime’s sojourn through the Riverlands owes a lot to Book!Jamie, right down to much of the dialogue. I love me some snarky, self-redeeming Book!Jamie.


	5. Episode 804 - The Last of the Starks - Part 3 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is which Missandei is a true hero...

**TYRION**

**Dragonstone - the dungeon**

Tyrion found himself, yet again, in a cell. 

The Targaryans were especially ingenious when it came to making prisoners suffer, and the Dragonstone cells were no exception.  Situated near the base of the castle, and with a long, narrow opening at the top, the cell was constantly inundated by the hard, salty spray of the ocean, and everything that washed in with it, from small crabs to piles of glass-like sand.  The latter had found its way into every crevice of his body. The cell was loud and uncomfortable and Tyrion hadn’t slept for days.

Euron had captured Dragonstone with surprising ease, attacking at night, and with such stealth and cunning that the few unsullied guards stationed in the castle had been unable to get off so much as a raven.  The Greyjoys had then occupied it, quickly, and waited for Dany’s fleet, easily surprising the returning queen’s men. 

And so, in the wake of the attack, as he had been walked up the beach, under guard, Tyrion had come to the realisation that he had seriously underestimated the Squids - or, perhaps more accurately, he had underestimated their leader's capacity for both cruelty and finding creepy new allies.  Tyrion had always considered the Warlocks of Qarth, with their blue lips and odd mannerisms, to be something of a joke. However, the ones here, with their soft voices and intoxicating potions, were not in the least bit funny. The only thing worse than the sand in his arse was the stinking pile of vomit in the corner of his cell.  He’d emptied his guts after a hazy interrogation session that commenced with him being forced to drink something yellow and vile, and concluded with him blabbering about everything from his first kiss to how he murdered his father.  And that was just what he remembered saying. The rest was a blur, and he wondered what else he told them. 

 _Probably everything_ , his guilty conscience taunted him.  _Probably even Jon’s heritage, Gods be good._

A day later, and he still felt sick and woozy, and terribly ashamed.   

Euron wasn't quite the joke he'd expected either.  He was unpredictable and violent, and given to rages that resulted in random deaths.  The unsullied were being kept elsewhere, but Euron had boasted to Tyrion that he had already sacrificed a half a dozen to his Drowned God, and that he was planning on making this carnage a daily occurrence - “like breakfast”. He acted out the drowning scene, adding gruesome details and body motion for added effect, and leaving Tyrion with little doubt as to the truth of the boast. Tyrion couldn’t decide if the man was a religious fanatic, or a homicidal maniac. 

_Probably both._

And now, here the Greyjoy captain was, standing before Tyrion, grinning manically. Tyrion supposed his time was up.

“If it isn’t the handsomest Lannister,” Euron drawled, leaning against the cell door. “Get up, you’re coming with me.”

Tyrion pushed himself off the floor.  "Why not? I’ve always been partial to drowning," he quipped, "although I had assumed it would be in a barrel of Arbor Gold, not in the cold waters off Dragonstone."

"Don't worry, I'm not sacrificing _you_.  The Drowned God would be offended if I tried.”  Euron leered disconcertingly. “I'm keeping you alive to gift to Queen Cersei.  She'll make me extra especially happy in exchange for you."

Tyrion snorted. "I suspect you greatly overestimate my importance to her.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to do that.  Did you know that her hunt for you has resulted in the deaths of just about every male dwarf in Westeros? Probably a couple of women, too. There’s a pit full of their heads below the Red Keep.  I wonder if she’ll let you join them?”  

Euron’s feral grin made it clear he’d like to watch that happen. Tyrion felt the familiar niggle of guilt that he was the cause of such death.  _Cersei's guilt, not mine,_ he reminded himself.

He stood up and dusted himself off.  He was filthy, drenched and salt encrusted, and he badly needed a drink. 

“She’ll probably throw me straight in that pit and demand something else from you within the hour. If you want to hold her interest longer, you’ve got the wrong Lannister.”

Euron scoffed “That one handed fucker of a brother can’t even get a good grip!” He waved his hips and grabbed his cock. “Given her everything she wants, this has.”

Tyrion was disgusted - and given his threshold for lewdness, that was really saying something. He could not for the life on him imagine Cersei opening her legs to _that_.  Maybe Jaime was right, and she really had gone insane.

“You’re delusional.  She’ll never share her throne with you.”

Euron actually crackled, a harsh, terrifying sound.  “I don’t intend to share anything with Cersei, other than that heir I put in her belly.”

Tyrion started.  _He thinks the baby is his_.  How was that even possible?  Cersei couldn’t be less than seven months pregnant and this moron couldn’t have been sleeping with her that long.  Could he?  When Jaime was still around?  Either he was, or he was very bad at math. 

_Or the baby was never Jaime’s…_

The temptation to say something snide and mocking about Euron’s ability to count was almost overwhelming, but Tyrion held himself in check.  If Cersei was pregnant with Jaime’s child, then the life of that babe probably depended upon this psychopath believing it to be his.  For once, Tyrion chose silence.

Sighing, he shook his head, and followed Euron out of the cell.

**MISSANDEI**

**Dragonstone - the beach cliffs**

Missandei sat on the wet, grey rocks and tentatively touched the bruised, battered skin above her rib.  It was very possibly broken.  She had other painful injuries, too, but that was by far the worst. It wasn’t healing. 

The good news, if you could call it that, was that she seemed to have a low level fever too, the kind that induced nausea and made her too ill to feel the hunger that would otherwise be gnawing at her.  She had not eaten for days.  She was thirsty, too, having survived on gulps of stormwater from the occasional rock pool.

The last few days were a daze.  She remembered the sudden attack, the harpoons and rain of red fire from the castle.  She remembered Grey Worm pushing her into the water.  She had no recollection of what happened to him. S _urely I would know if he was dead?_  She couldn’t think about that now.

She’d swam to shore, and sought shelter in the cliffs.  As far as she could tell, she was the only one to have made it without being captured.  Others were dragged from the beach, or marched up in lines.  Dragonstone Island was now occupied by Dany’s enemies, and they were setting a trap for her _._   They had warlocks with them, the same people who had imprisoned Dany’s dragons, and sent an assassin after her in Astapor.  _Perhaps they are here for the dragons again?_   _Was it not said that their power increased in the presence of them?_

Missandei couldn’t let that happen.  She had to warn Dany.

On her first day, Missandei had carefully explored the caves and crevices at the food of the castle, hoping to find some forgotten entrance, but her investigation had only confirmed that the fortress was impenetrable. There was simply no way in, short of walking up to the front gates and seeking admission, and that was unlikely to get her anything but captured. She’d have to be desperate before she did that.  _Even m_ _ore desperate_.  She had considered waiting for someone to leave, and trying to sneak in as the gates opened, but that wouldn’t work either, given the field of vision over them, and the fact she was hardly inconspicuous.

Missandei had spent her first night hiding in the shadows of one of the cliffs, pondering what else she could do.  She’d awoken to the cries of gulls, and then the sounds of men struggling, as Greyjoy soldiers drowned an unsullied in the water beneath her.  She couldn’t see him clearly, but was relieved to see he was large of build.  _Not Grey Worm_ , she told herself.  She immediately felt ashamed for being glad another’s life had been taken instead.  Two more followed, and she was equally, ashamedly, relieved they were not Grey Worm either.  Their bodies were left for the waves.

The next evening she decided that her only option was to climb the cliffs, try to light some kind of warning fire on the bluff, and then hope, no _pray_ , that Dany would see it before it was too late, and that the invaders wouldn’t see it at all.  She ripped her skirt to make bandages for her hands and her ribs, and then waited till dark before making her way to the base of the rock wall.  She surveyed it, chose the most likely-looking site, and attempted to haul herself up.  She couldn’t do it.  The rocks were as sharp as glass, and the distance between them too great to climb.  Her arms were shaking, her ribs burning, and she was weak from lack of food.  _Impossible._ She felt the fear and frustration boiling in her stomach.

That next morning, more unsullied were drowned. Missandei watched from the rocks as the deranged-looking Greyjoy captain - King Euron, they called him - held the soldiers, one by one, under the water, until they ceased struggling and floated.  Then bodies were dragged back on the beach, and watched.

“None are blessed to live again!” Euron announced, some minutes later, as if expecting the dead to wake. _But why not? We’ve seen it before._ He kicked the body of one unsullied, for no apparent reason.  “Pity.  Just not strong or worthy enough!”

“Mayhaps you need a workin' cock and balls to be reborn!” suggested another soldier.

“Should’ve let Yara have a go then, it’d finish her off!” said a third.

"No it wouldn't!"

“Would do for Theon but!”

There was much laughter, and the majority of the Greyjoy troops made their way back up to the castle.  A couple of younger looking soldiers prepared to throw the bodies into the water – “food for krakens” - but then another spoke: “Nah, the witches may want ‘em, leave ‘em.”  And so that they did, following their leaders up to the castle, and leaving the bodies, forgotten, in the sand. 

As the men left, Missandei didn’t think twice.  It a very bad plan.  Awful.  Foolish.  Almost certainly suicidal.  But she had to succeed.  Dany’s life depended on it.

 

**BRIENNE**

**Near Riverrun**

They were still an hour out of Riverrun when they first smelled the smoke.  That was when they knew.  Riverrun had burned.

Jaime grew rigid and silent as they approached, and when they spied the column of grey ash rising above the trees, he set off at a canter.  Brienne followed, Pod and the men further behind.

They arrived to the sight of the castle still smouldering, the keep and entry in ruins, the surrounding fields a churned and muddy mess. 

Jaime drew his horse up at the drawbridge, and leap from it.  His eyes fell on a pile of ashes a couple of dozen feet away, between the castle and the river.  Molten metal glinted in the black.

"No, no, no..." Jaime groaned, rushing toward it.

Brienne approached more slowly, and looked around carefully.  The encampment was empty, but showed the signs of recent habitation.  Bones, broken crockery and other garbage was scattered about, some bits being picked at by crows.  None of the bones looked human.  She could smell the refuse pit.  The besieging army had been gone maybe a couple of days, at the most. She surveyed the castle.  There was no one on the barricades, but it was hard to believe the castle was completely un-defended.

Brienne steadied herself, and walked up slowly behind Jaime.  Her hand was shaking when she placed it on his arm.  He shrugged it off.  "I need a moment," he muttered. 

She respected that, and not wanting to make him more uncomfortable, she backed away.  She beckoned to Pod, and the men, and motioned toward the castle.

The gatehouse was a ruin, the portcullis and gates a mess of melted sludge and char.  _Dragonfire._ It was the only possibility.  She cautiously walked her horse beneath them, the animal skittish in the smokey remains.

The central courtyard was empty.

"Hello!" she called.  Crows flew from the roof, but no humans answered her.

"There's no one here, ser," Pod said cautiously.

Brienne disagreed. "No, it couldn't be deserted.  These people are just scared."  _Like just about everyone caught in this ridiculous war._

Standing in the courtyard, she addressed herself to the walls. "I am Brienne of Tarth, and this is my squire, Podrick Payne.  We're not here to harm you.  Please, tell us what happened here.  Perhaps we can help."

They waited several minutes, and then an old woman, her hair in a kerchief and her dress patched, emerged from one of the towers. She had a burry, Riverland accent. Likely a native, not a Westerman

"Are you Queensmen?" The old woman asked. 

Brienne shook her head in answer to the question. "No, I serve Lady Sansa of Winterfell". 

The woman stared at her harshly.  "The Queen in the north, then!" she announced.

Brienne was surprised.  "Sansa is not a Queen."

The old woman smiled, unpleasantly, revealing a mouth nearly devoid of teeth: "The queen in North, the queen in the South and the queen of the East, the Dragon Lady.  It's a queen’s war now.  Heh.  The men are all dead!"

Brienne didn't know what to make of that. "Are you alone here, grandmother?"

It did not seem safe for an elderly matron to be here by herself, so Brienne doubted that she was.  Where would they all have gone, anyway? The kitchen hands, the stable boys, the pages.  The chamberlain and squires and ladies.  Even the bannerman, the guardsman.   _They must be hiding_. _Like the smallfolk they are meant to protect._

"Nay, I am not alone,” said the old woman. “But who would kill or abuse an old woman such as me?  I am the safest of any here." 

Brienne nodded.  "Can you tell me what happened?"

The old woman shuddered.  “Death came to the Lannister’s,” she sad grimly. “But mayhaps also to us.”

Afterwards, having listened to the old woman's story, Brienne made her way back to Jaime.  She found him still sitting outside the castle, head in his hands. She'd rarely seen him look so defeated. She sat down next to him, not quite touching him, but hoping her presence offered some comfort.  

"It's not as bad as it could be," she begun. "Most of your men are fine.  Daenerys stripped them of arms, but allowed them to leave.  The women and non-combatants are hiding in the castle.  She did, however, burn the Commanders."

Jaime nodded sadly. "Did they refuse to surrender?"

"Yes."

"Gods damnit!"  He slammed the gold hand into the ground in frustration. "The Commander here, Ser Addam Marbrand, was a friend.  A good friend.  I would have thought he'd know better!" 

He drove his fist into the ground two more times, forcing moss and soil into the air and leaving indentations in the soft ground.  Brienne watched him sadly, feeling the pain flow through every inch of his body.

"This assignment was beneath Addam, but he had shared my concerns about the Riverlands, and had agreed to do what he could, despite Cersei.  I loved him dearly. I had hoped to spare his life..."

His voice was chocked and broken.  Brienne gently put a hand on his arm and squeezed gently.  She wanted to hug him, hold him too her, but she was acutely aware of the eyes of their men. To show such affection to him, here, was impossible.

"I'll see that the ashes are appropriately interned," she said gently.

"Thank you..." he murmured.

Jaime drew his left hand up to place it over hers, where it rested on his right arm, seeking comfort in touch. They sat there for a long minute.

Then Jaime said, softly, "Brienne, I need to go to Kings Landing. I need to get to Cersei."

She couldn't prevent the sharp intake of breath at that.   Suddenly, her heart was in her throat and her chest was burning.  _No, not Cersei._ Cersei, in whose name Jaime had done most of his worse deeds.  In whose presence, he became almost a different person.  In whose arms he had sought solace and pleasure for most of his life.

 _Cersei was the enemy._ She wanted to yell it at him.  Grab him, and hold him, and beg him to stay. Force him to stay. But she didn’t.  Couldn't.  She took a deep breath, controlling her emotions.  When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly steady.

“You can’t save her, Jaime.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But I can’t abandon her, either, not when there is a chance, even only a small chance, that I can save her.  Not … not when she may be carrying our child.”

Brienne closed her eyes.  _The child_.  She had tried so hard not to think about the child. It had been selfish and foolish of her to ignore it, avoid it, but she supposed that was what one did, when in love.

And she was definitely in love.  Painfully and tortuously so.  She had thought she had loved Renly, but that was a dim and distant feeling compared to what she felt for Jaime.  She'd loved Jaime for years, tended that little spark of longing and hope for all that time, for so very long. And now she had him, she was losing him. 

She could feel her newly mended heart breaking in two.

“You still love her,” she said softly.

Jaime nodded, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “Yes”.

Brienne couldn’t stop the tears welling in her eyes, or hold back a small sob at his honest answer.  Her hopes, her dreams, the stupid dreams of marriage, and children, and happily ever after that she'd indulged in these past days, were beginning to crumble around her. 

Then Jaime turned to look at her, his eyes liquid too.  He gently raised a hand to her face.

“I meant what I said, Brienne.  I love you too.  Never doubt that.  You are my future, the woman I dream about, and think about, and want to spend the rest of my life with.  But Cersei is my past.  Everything I have done, my whole life before I met you, was for her.  I vowed that I would love her and protect her, forever, and I can’t just forget that.  I've broken every other fucking vow.  I have to keep that one.”

Brienne could feel the tears rolling down her face.  She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, not like this. Never with a man, or her troops.  Not even with Jaime.

“You don’t need to die with her…”

He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. “Cersei will never surrender, Brienne.  And Daenerys will never give up.  They are going to burn that city to the ground. If there is any chance, any chance at all, that I can stop that, I have to try. For Cersei, for the baby ... fuck, even for the people of Kings Landing. Any chance at all, I’m going to take it.”

Brienne swallowed.  She wiped her tears messily with the back of her hand. 

“What are you going to do?”

He chuckled, self-derisively.  “I have no fucking idea.  I may have to improvise. But I am going to start by talking to Jon.  If I can catch him.”

“I’ll come with you,” Brienne offered, and she meant it.

He shook his head, looked back up at her.  “No, you can’t.  Cersei…well, let’s just say she’s aware that I thought highly enough of you to stare at you at the Dragonpit, and act like, and I quote, ‘a slack jawed idiot’.  She knows you wear my priceless sword.  She may well have heard rumours about us.  And she doesn’t like to share.  I know you rather enjoy danger, but your presence won’t help”.

Brienne nodded, drew a shaky breath.  “I understand.” 

She didn’t, not really.  There remained a part of Jaime’s life with Cersei that she could never understand. She wasn’t even sure that she wanted to. But, inexperienced as she was, she was not an idiot.  She had entered into this relationship with Jaime knowing he was conflicted.  She did not want that past to fester away, lurking at the edges of their relationship, a destructive shadow that would forever haunt them.  It had to be resolved. 

“You have to finish things with Cersei, properly. Alone."

"Yes,” he nodded, sadly. He placed her hand gently in her lap, and reached up to stoke her face.  “In any case, you need to get back to Sansa.  The war of three queens, that’s what you said the old lady said.  If that’s what the smallfolk are calling it, your lady is probably in danger too.”

Brienne nodded, not quite daring to speak.  Sansa seemed so far away, so irrelevant.  She was surprised how ready she was to forget her vow, to ride with Jaime, protect him and love him and damn the rest of the world. But of course, she wouldn’t do that.  If nothing else, Jaime wouldn’t let her.

“This is not how I was expecting today to end.”  She sniffed.

He smiled.  “Me either.” His fingers caressed her cheek. “I blame you, you know.  Before I met you, I wouldn’t have been anywhere near this self-sacrificing and responsible.”

She laughed.  “And I would not have been as indiscreet in showing my affections as I am about to be.” 

Uncaring that they were watched by dozens of men, the inhabitants of a castle, and her own squire, Brienne leaned in to Jaime, and kissed him. He kissed her back, deeply, his hand moving to the back of her neck to hold her to him.  It was promise of a sort, to come back to her, if he could.  She trusted him to keep it, if he could. 

They sat, holding each other, as the sun began to set over the distant mountains.

 

**MISSANDEI**

**Dragonstone - the beach cliffs**

The unsullied had been sacrificed to the Drowned God wearing their armour.  As unlikely a plan as it was, Missandei thought that if, perhaps, she could wear it, they might take her inside as well. 

She waited until the Greyjoys were gone, and then took a tremendous risk, running down to the bodies on the beach.  She went immediately to the smallest of them.  _Black Pig_ , she thought. _Remember his name_.  She grabbed him by the hands, and pulled.  He barely moved.  She tried again, and again, but he was too heavy.  Sobbing, and increasingly desperate, she fell to her knees and tried to remove the armour.  It was sodden, the leather swollen, and the buckles uncooperative. It was hopeless.  _What will I do with his body even if I remove his armour_?  This wasn’t going to work.

Missandei heard voices, above, coming around to the beach, and quickly retreated back into the safety of the cliffs.  She noticed with horror that her feet had left depressions in the sand.

The figures who emerged onto the beach were not who she expected. It was a larger party – Euron, many of his men, Tyrion and Varys.  She almost leaped from the rocks to call to Tyrion, but held back.  He and Varys were clearly prisoners.  They made their way to the waters edge, as a large rowboat glided ashore.  Euron looked impatient, Tyrion and Varys confused.

 _They’re leaving_ , she realised.

She watched as Euron’s men forced the prisoners onto the boat.  Euron's gaze swept the shore, and she was certain it lingered the footprints in the sand. Her heart was beating so loudly and frantically that she was terrified he could hear it anyway.  His eyes seemed to stop directly on her. She did not dare move. How could he not _see_ her? But he did nothing, other than smirk, shrug and climb into the boat.

 _He saw me!_ She thought, panicking.  And then, _No, no, he couldn’t have._ Her fear was so palpable she wondered if she was losing her mind.

After that, two more rowboats left, the first carrying away more Greyjoys, and the second, sometime later, carrying away three robed Warlocks and two reluctant looking oarsmen.  It was mid-morning, the sun was moving higher, and the castle was very, very still.

Missandei waited what felt like hours, weighing her fear and trepidation against the thrilling, desperate hope that Grey Worm was in there, somewhere, alive.  Slowly, painfully, she moved from the rocks.  She crept across the beach, up the cliffs, to the gates.  They were open.  It was nearly an invitation to enter. 

As if in a dream, Missandei walked up the long walkway to the keep.  The air was absolutely still. Even the wind had abandoned Dragonstone.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she found that the doors to the keep were open, too.  There was not a sound coming from inside. She crept in further, until she stood at the base of the great central stone staircase.  Its curves vanished into shadows.  She pondered whether to go up, or down to the cells. _Where could he be?_

Then she saw a figure, a man, stumbling down the stairs toward her, gripping the wall and bending over painfully, as if injured.  She recognised his long, scared face.  _Sallow Maggot_.  He coughed.  It was a wet, sick sound. 

Missandei had an immediate urge to run, to flee this suddenly dreadful seeming place, but another, nobler part of her refused to abandon this friend.  She stood, and let him stumble toward her, let him fall clumsily into her arms.  He was sick and feverish.  She felt his hot, putrid breath on her face, the warmth of his hands on her bare arms and shoulders. 

“Help me,” he coughed.  There was blood on his mouth. Droplets sprayed her chest.

He had no other obvious injuries. 

She gasped. “You’re ill!”

“Water…”

Missandei helped Sallow Maggot down onto the floor.  _Yes, water, he needs water_.  

“Wait here,” she said, firmly but kindly. “I’ll get water.”

She stood up and stumbled down the towering hallway.  She recalled that there was a fountain in one of the receiving rooms down on this floor.  It doubled as a well for the lazy or the busy.  She found the room, pushed open the creaking wooden door.   

The open doorway revealed a space crowded with the unsullied, over half dozen of them.  Most were leaning over the fountain, drinking furiously.  Their lips had blood on them, and the water was tinged red.  They were coughing.  Horrible, wracking wet coughs. 

One of the men looked up.  _Foul Wound, that is his name_.  He was close to Grey Worm.

“Missandei” he croaked, and his face fell when he saw her. “Oh no…”

He was devastated to her, and the terrible realisation why slithered into her mind like a venomous snake.  _Plague,_ she realised numbly.  _They have infected us with a plague._

Hesitantly, fear hanging off her like a cloak, she asked: “Where is Grey Worm?” 

“Gone…to warn…Queen,” _Foul Wound_ managed, between coughs.

Missandei grabbed a jug, pushed her way through the tortured men, and scooped up some of the pinkish water. She took it back to Sallow Maggot, blinking through tears and trying to keep a hold on to her escalating panic as she handed it to him.  Then she climbed the stairs, and found the way to the outer Courtyard.  The way to Grey Worm.

He looked up as she approached, and his eyes grew large when he saw her.

“Missandei,” her name was anguish on his lips.

“I’m here,” she cried, falling down beside him. Her world was blurred through tears.

“Wish…you… weren’t.  Need…to…go.” He coughed, that horrid, wet cough.

She shook her head. “I can’t.  I’ve breathed the air, I’ve touched others.  I’m already affected, Grey Worm.”

There were tears in his eyes too now. Pain and grief and devastation.

“The warlocks…” he stammered.

“Yes, they have infected us.”

 _They want us to spread this horror_ , she realised.  Spread it to Dany’s people, and perhaps wider.  _That cannot happen_.

Missandei knee then with cold certainly, that they could not leave the island, none of them. And Dany, and her dragons, must not land there. 

_Their magic is stronger with dragons._

“We need to make sure the Queen sees us,” Missandei said.  “And that she does not approach.”

“Help me up,” Grey Worm replied. “And I will help you.  I will get the men up here, where she can see us.  And do what she must.” 

 _And so she can do what she needs to do._ What that was remained unspoken. Missandei raised her chin, met his gaze. They both knew what needed to be done. 

_We must die, here, of this terrible illness, so that others may live._

She helped Grey Worm to stand, and together they struggled down the stairs.  Cautiously they went room to room, and Grey Worm commanded each man to move to the upper courtyard.  Those who would walk did, those who couldn’t were aided, even carried.  They all knew what they needed to do. Missandei loved every one of these men.  Their courage, fortitude and sacrifice was beyond belief.  She watched them, in tears, wondering whether this, and they, would ever be known, or remembered.

She brought them water, the only comfort she could.

As the hours passed, Missandei could feel her own lungs filling with moisture, her limbs beginning to ache.  She made her way to the beach.  She collected items of detritus that had washed up on the shore, and the bodies of the murdered unsullied, and used them to spell a single word on the beach: _Plague._ After a thought, she added another.   _Warlocks._

Then she struggled back up the stairs, coughing herself now, and tasting the iron tang of blood in her mouth. The dying men were calling for water, and she gave them what relief she could.  She filled the remaining pitchers of water, carried them back to the courtyard, her own mouth dry, her legs like molten led.  

Finally, as her own lungs filled to a point beyond endurance, she found Grey Worm, and fell into his arms. “Tell me about Narth,” he said to her, painfully. And she did, until she could talk no more. Then she lost herself in the comfort of him, in the warmth of his strong arms, and the memory of their shared dreams, as around her, men coughed, and suffered, and, in a few lucky cases, died.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," he whispered back. 

She opened her eyes the next morning, to the rising of the sun, and the shadow of two dragons. 

 _Don’t land_ , she thought, _Please Dany, don’t come._

Her queen circled on Drogon, and Missandei felt a desperate terror.  _It cannot all be for naught._ She summoned what little was left of her strength, suffered the pain of leaving Grey Worm’s arms. She stood, and waved, and Dany saw her. 

She came no further.

 _She will not endanger her baby._ She thought, with some relief.

Missandei looked up at Dany, where she sat on her dragon.  Her queen was crying.  Weeping.  Missandei was doing likewise. Drogon let out a plaintiff, agonised cry, then Rhaegel too.

But Missandei smiled through her tears.  She had succeeded.  _They left me alive_ , she had realised during the night.  _They left me alive and free on that beach so that Dany would rescue me, and I would spread this plague. But they were evil, selfish men, and it had never occurred that I, we, would never let that happen_. 

Missandei had been a slave for most of her life, but now she was free.  She would not be used as a slave again, and certainly not to carry poison and illness to the innocent.  She would sacrifice herself, and even Grey Worm, to stop that.

She fell to her knees, and pulled Grey Worm into her arms. He groaned in pain, but clutched her back.  She held him as tightly as she could.  And then she looked up at Dany.

 _I love you, my Queen_ , she said with her eyes.  _But we hurt.  Now,_ _please help us._

She said one word, a plea.

“Dracarys.”

When the heat came, from both dragons, and through their mistresses' tears, Missandei welcomed it as a blessed relief.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry that Grey Worm and Missandei didn't get their happy ending, although I think they get an honorable and heroic one. 
> 
> Missandei's "dracarys" is so iconic, I wanted to keep it. But I don't accept that such a noble soul would or should urge Dany to destroy a city. So this is my attempt to put some honour back into her request.


	6. Episode 805 - the Bells - part 1 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where agreements of all kinds are made in preparation for the Battle of Kings Landing...

**EPISODE 805 - THE BELLS - PART 1**

 

**JON**

**The Dragon Queen’s Army - Beside the Blackwater Rush**

 

The march from Riverrun to Kings Landing had gone well.  Baring any catastrophes, Jon expected the army would reach Kings Landing on the morrow.  The men knew it too, and the air was heavy with anticipation.

They set up camp on a wide, marshy plain between the Gold Road and the Blackwater Rush. It was a hastily constructed, and only good for the night, but the men made the most of it.  Fires were lit, ale distributed and a little meat shared around.  The countryside had already been striped clean of everything useful, and the Dothraki horses laid waste to the only remaining vegetation – the sparse, stringy grass - but a few lucky hunters still managed to snare a hare or a water fowl.  Jon watched, proudly, as that meat too was shared.  The night progressed so well that songs were sung.

Dothraki, Unsullied, Northmen, Rivermen riding together, and not killing either the small folk, or (for the most) each other.  _A good army_ , Jon thought,  _as good an army as I have ever seen._

The thought remained in his head only as long as it took for the image of the burning Lannister commanders to reappear. He could still  _smell_  them.  _I let it happen,_ he thought. He had let Mance Rayder's happen too, although at least on that occasion he'd fired the arrow to end that torture.   _Dany was right, we couldn't wait_ , he told himself, although his gut still clenched at the memory. The smell of the roasting rabbit suddenly made his stomach turn, and he wandered back toward the tents.  

Jon was preparing to turn in when he heard the sound of beating wings and the familiar roar of an approaching dragon. Darkness had disguised their approach.  He grabbed a cloak and rushed from his tent to meet his queen, his gut filled with lead.   _She shouldn't be here._ But she was. Something was very wrong, and everyone in the camp knew it. The singing had stopped.

Jon was joined by Jorah, and they made their way to the edge of the camp, where Drogon landed.  The dragon had barely put a foot to the ground before Dany tumbled off him, her legs near collapsing under her as she landed.  Jon ran to her, only just reaching her in time to stop her from falling.  Her hair was wild, her dress stained black, her hands shaking. She'd smelt of ashes and her face was a picture of despair. As he wrapped his arms around her, he realised she was freezing to the touch, her clothing hard and wet as if made from ice and her lips nearly blue.  She was gasping at the air.   

 _By the Old Gods, how fast did she fly?  How high_?

He rubbed her arms vigorously, trying to warm her up, propriety forgotten.  Jorah took off his coat and threw it over her as well, and Jon nodded in gratitude.

When she had recovered sufficiently to speak, Dany looked up at him with her huge, blue eyes.  They were ringed with red and spilling tears, and Jon's heart melted.

"They're dead, Jon.  They're all dead..."

"Who?"

"All of them..."

And then,  _Gods be good,_  she started to cry.  Jon gathered her in his arms and held her as she sobbed.  A wedge of pure terror settled in his chest.   Things must be truly desperate indeed if she was prepared to let her grief, her weakness, be witnessed by the whole camp. Jon looked desperately at Jorah.

"Get her out of here," the knight mouthed.

Jon nodded, and directed Dany toward the command tent. Meanwhile, Jorah told the men to get back to their own business.

Once in the tent, Jon poured Dany a watered wine and wrapped another cloak around his queen's shaking shoulders.  Then he knelt down before her, his hand touching her knee.

"Please, tell me what has happened Dany."

She nodded, drew a shuddering breath, and started to explain. She told him of Missandei and Grey Worm, the plague and the fire.  The loss of most of the Unsullied, and her burning of Dragonstone.

"Tyrion?" Jon asked, "Varys?"

Dany shook her head.  "I don't know, I didn't see them, but..." her voice faltered.  Jon nodded.  Likely dead.  Like the others.

Jon felt his gorge rise, anger bubbling and churning in his stomach.  Cersei was using disease.  Risking plague, of all things.   _To add to the famine and the war._ This was beyond fucked.  This was beyond anything he had ever imagined any man, or woman, to be capable of.  The urge to take action, to seek immediate revenge, rose in his chest.  

 _And yet..._ "Don't be provoked," Tyrion had said.

Wasn't this exactly what he had been warned about? He  _was_  being provoked.  He knew it.  It was Ramsay Bolton all over again, death to writ death.  It was such an obvious, crass tactic, it shouldn't work. And yet, how could it not?  How could he deny his queen her vengeance after this?  How could he suffer a creature like Cersei to remain on the Iron Throne for a moment later?

"She's poison, Jon," Dany hissed. "Poison and corruption, and as long as she sits on that throne, that rot will leach into the ground of Westeros and taint everything it touches.  We can't wait any longer."

She was right, of course she was right, but Jon couldn't escape the fear, that they were playing into Cersei's hands. 

"But...the people of King's Landing..." he began.

Dany's voice was hard and cold.  "The people in King's Landing have chosen their fate."

Jon began to object, but she raised a hand.  "Not all of them, no, but many.  Many have chosen to seek her protection, with no reason for believing it will be given, other than that they fear us more than her.  Why?  They have no reason to fear me, anymore than they have a reason to love her.  Have my men ravaged their fields?  Raped their women?  The Westerosi were doing that to each other long before I got here.  If anything, I have brought order, where Cersei has sowed chaos, and yet they fear _me_?"

"It's not fair, I'll grant you that,"  Jon answered, cautiously, "but it is what it is.  People fear what they don't know.  Most don't yet know you yet, Dany, only the memory of your father.  If we overreact to this, then we risk making those fears a reality.”

"'Overreact'?" Dany 's voice was somewhere between a laugh and a cry. "She used a magical disease, Jon, to kill my best friend and my army.  She has risked a plague - perhaps she even wanted one!  How? How is it even possible to 'overreact' to that?!"

Jon could think of no answer.  He put his head in his hands, wishing he could, just for a moment, block out the whole wretched world so he could think. 

"The people act without reason, Jon.  They need to be saved from themselves.  I have listened to your counsel, and accepted it until now, but the circumstances have changed. We will not win friends by delaying our attack, nor will we win them by subjecting the people of Kings Landing to months of starvation and deprivation while Cersei sits safe and comfortable in her tower.  How can we ask the small folk to continue to feed our armies, while we camp, idle, outside their capital and a tyrant remains on the throne?  How much longer can we expect men to be away from their families, their farms, waiting for something to happen?  We can't continue to wait Jon.  We have to act now.  Strike now, be rid of the corruption, and we can get on to rebuilding.  That is how we will win their love."

Jon's mind was swirling.  It made sense. She was right.  And yet... _Don't be provoked_. The people of Kings Landing were the victims, not the enemy. A sudden attack could mean thousands would die. His indecision must have been writ large on his face, because Dany looked disappointed and frustrated.  

She met his eyes with a cold, hard glare. "I am your queen. You have bent your knee to me, swore an oath. I could order the attack at any time, but I do not want us to fight each other, Jon. I want us to stand together.  It's Cersei who wants us to fight."

"She's doing a good job at it," Jon conceded.

"At this, if nothing else, she is." Dany sighed, and pushed away from him.  She stood, and looked around the tent, and then back to him. "You still doubt me?"

Jon stammered.  "You are my queen..." he began, but he got no further.  She could see right through him, she always could. 

He started again. "I don't doubt you, Dany.  I doubt  _me._ I don't know what is wrong and what is right, anymore.  All options seem to lead to disaster."

”Then trust _my_  judgement.” She said.

He swallowed, nodded.  Was the responsibility of that ultimate decision not why one chose a king, or a queen?

She frowned, as if contemplating, then appeared to make a decision.

"I need agreement, not acquiescence.  I had hoped to persuade you with reason, but in that I have failed," she said. "So, I will do that which I had hoped not to do.  I have something I need to show you, something that changes everything."

Jon watched, quizzically, as Dany moved away from him, and walked slowly to the fire.  She basked in its glow for a moment, and then she let the cloak he had placed on her shoulders fall to the floor, followed by Jorah's coat as well.  Her fingers moved to the broach holding her main cloak, working the clasp skillfully, and she let that too fall to the floor.  Jon stared at her in bewilderment, hardly believing what he was seeing.  She would never use herself like this - never use her charms to get what she wanted.  What was happening.  He could feel himself withdrawing, panicking.  _Wrong, Wrong. Wrong._

"Dany-" he said in a strangled voice.

"No, don't talk Jon." She whispered, her hands reaching for the clasp at her dress. "Just, look at me. I want you to look at me.  I need you to look at me."

There was a plaintiff sound in her voice, and so he did what she asked. He watched her as the dress she was wearing fell to the ground, revealing her near naked form.  He looked, of course he did, he couldn't not. At her beautiful line of her neck, her round breasts, the rounded swell of her stomach.

He gasped. It could not be. But it was.

"You're pregnant" he said, in awe.

"Yes," Dany said, simply. "I did not believe it, not truly, for a long time. Maester Wolken confirmed it. And now the child has quickened.  I have felt him moving Jon."

Jon's breathing was coming in ragged gasps.  The world was spinning, it was too much.  "You said..."

"That I could have no more children?  Yes, and so I believed.  But that prophecy was not real.  I carry within me our child. The last Targaryan, Jon."

"I..." There were no words. None that he could form, and no coherent thoughts either. Terror, delight, awe, shock - so many feelings dueled in Jon's stomach, as he stared at the swell of hers.

Dany gave him a moment more to process the information, and then bent down and retrieved her dress, pulling it back over her body.  Her tone, when she spoke, was pure Targaryan fire.

"I know that our shared heritage worries you Jon.  I do not share your concerns.  For generations the Targaryans kept their blood pure by marrying brother and cousin.  But it is ultimately of no matter to me if you never touch me again.  You, me, your claim to the throne, my claim, they are all now ultimately just pillars in something grander.  We are to have a son and it is his claim that we must champion now.  We need to move to secure his future.  We cannot wait any longer.  Are you with me, now?"

Jon, stunned, nodded.

"We must marry," he stammered.

"Yes, as soon as possible," she agreed.

 

**TYRION**

**Kings Landing - the Black Cells**

If there was one place even worse than the cells on Dragonstone, it was the ones beneath the Red Keep.  The Black Cells.  Designed to ensure absolute darkness, and capable of driving even the sanest of men mad in a matter of days.  And Tyrion Lannister was far from the sanest of men. He had no idea precisely how long he had been imprisoned, but was already at the point of imagining rats, and spiders, and even Cersei in the room.

It was a relief when someone thrust a lamp into the his cell, despite the sudden intrusion of light bringing agonising red and orange flashes and a stream of tears to his eyes.  Tyrion wore, and blinked, and then tried to focus on the pleasant face, smiling serenely behind the light.

"Qyburn,"  he coughed.

"Lord Lannister," came the soft, quiet acknowledgment. "I have come to take you to see the queen."

"Fabulous", said Tyrion sarcastically.  "The only thing that could make my day any better.  Talking to Cersei."

His eyes began to adjust to new, if dim, light. It did not improve the appearance of his cell, merely revealing just how filthy every surface was.  Qyburn glanced distastefully around the small room, and then lifted his hand to thrust a bucket filled with water in Tyrion’s direction. 

"Please clean yourself up, lest she be offended by your presence," he suggested.

"My dear sister will be offended by my presence no matter how clean I am," Tyrion warned.  But he reached for the bucket.  

Qyburn gave him a sympathetic smile.  "You may be right, my Lord.  Nonetheless, you should try."

Tyrion peered at the water and retrieved a sponge from where it floated on the surface. He squeezed the water from the sponge over his head and let it drip down his face.  It smelt of sweet roses and honeysuckle, a floral scent appropriate for a newly flowered girl.   _Of course it does. S_ he'd ensure he suffered every little humiliation. The water dripped off him as a black sludge.  Qyburn turned away a little, but watched him indirectly, a polite balance between caution and courtesy.  No doubt there was a more brutal guard just outside the door.

Tyrion did not know Qyburn well.  He certainly was a curious character, albeit one whose rise had been impressive. Jaime had credited him with saving his arm, if not his life, and that had earned the former maester the gratitude of their father and a posting at court.  From there, he had somehow ingratiated himself with his sister to such a degree that he was now her Hand.  Looking at the small, urbane man before him, it was all very hard to believe her could offer Cersei much, but she would not keep him by her side if he did not have some kind of power.

_There is that rumor that he brought Gregor Clegane back from the dead..._

Whatever Qyburn's background, he had to be more reasonable than his sister was likely to be, so Tyrion took his chance.

"You're a rational man, Qyburn." He began.

"Or so I flatter myself, my Lord," Qyburn responded smoothly.

"We have a chance, perhaps our last chance, you avoid carnage."

Qyburn gave a slight nod, barely perceptible in the lantern light. "Yes."

"Qyburn.  I don't want to see this city burn.  I don't want to hear the screams of children burning alive."

"No, it's not a pleasant sound,"  Qyburn acknowledged, blandly. Tyrion had the horrible feeling Qyburn had some firsthand experience.

"Qyburn,"  Tyrion could hear he was close to begging. "Please, help me save this city. Help me talk to the queen."

Qyburn gave him a look that was almost sad.  "My Lord, I am only a mouthpiece for the Queen, I do not know what you expect me to do."

"Your queen," Tyrion corrected.

"Our queen.  The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion shook his head, water splashing across the stone tiles.  "You're not delusional, Qyburn.  Her reign is over, surely you understand that."

Qyburn frowned, and seemed to chose his words carefully.  "I understand nothing of the sort, Lord Tyrion, " he said, slowly. "Your queen has lost a dragon, Dragonstone, and most of your unsullied. Your armies are battle-weary and depleted, while ours are fresh and reinforced by the Golden Company.  You have two dragons, but we have several warlocks of Qarth, who tell us their very power is enhanced by the presence of dragons.  We have also had time to think about other mechanisms to deal with those dragons.  I also, courtesy of you and Lord Varys, now have a detailed and impeccable understanding of your strengths and weaknesses and your battle plans.  I think you will find that our position is actually rather a strong one.  In addition, our Queen has some echo of legitimacy.  Your Queen, if you are indeed seeking a Targaryan restoration, does not. "

Tyrion supposed he could only be talking about the alternative Targaryan heir.  _Gods, was there anyone left in the seven kingdoms who didn't know this secret?_

"Cersei will still lose." Tyrion said simply.

Qyburn raised his hands in an unconcerned gesture, as if to indicate it was out of his control. "I have more faith in my queen than I do in your choice to replace her.  Indeed, in either of your choices, as I understand your Lord Varys is a little equivocal, and may be preferring the male heir.  I am sure he is not the only one who is.”  He held out his hand for the bucket, and Tyrion gave it to him.  “I lived through the days of Aerys, my Lord Tyrion.  I saw the madness in that man, the irrationality.  I question what madness would lead you to wish to put his daughter back on the throne?  Or his grandson?"

Tyrion snorted. “They can’t be worse than Cersei.”

“Can’t they?”  Qyburn raised an eyebrow. “Your sister covets power, and she will do what she needs to do in order to acquire it, but she does not act without purpose and she, the odd ingenious act of revenge aside, she is not a sadist.  She is better in every way than the Mad King.  Insanity and instability runs in the blood of the Targaryans.  If not this one, then the next.  So, you will forgive me, if I choose the lion over the dragon”.    

At that, Qyburn called for a guard. "You think on what I have said, too, Lord Tyrion," he suggested, and was gone. 

The guard led Tyrion up flight after flight of stairs to Cersei's chambers.  By the time he reached them his legs felt ready to fall off.  Surely Cersei did not climb this every day?  People said she never left her solar, and maybe the blasted steps were why.

Cersei's rooms were much the same as they had always been. Thick curtains, plush carpets, fine furnishings, the heady smell of wine and dates and fresh flowers and fruit.  Tyrion was immediately assaulted by the richness, the Lannisterishness, of it all.  After so long in the dull and grey north, the wealth and colour of Kings Landing seemed obscene and garish, the plushness a waste of gold  How was it that he had once taken all this for granted?

Cersei sat, tall and rigid, in a high backed chair, a wine glass clasped in her hand. Her stomach, Tyrion noted, had only a hint of a swell to it.  It was as like to be the drink as a baby.

"Hello, Tyrion." It was almost a purr, but less the seductive burr of her younger years, and more the teasing mockery of a large feline about to play with a defenseless mouse.

"Sister."  His throat was dry and raw and the aromas in the room made his head hurt.  "Cersei..."

Cersei waved her hand at the wine on the table, a clear invitation to help himself.  He hesitated.  

"Oh, don’t be ridiculous Tyrion.  I'm drinking it, so you can rest assured it's not poisoned.  I think we both agree we get along better when we're not quite sober."

The smell of the wine alone was enough to stir a longing in his stomach, and Tyrion poured himself a welcome drink. 

_Ah, alcoholism, the one thing Cersei and I really do have in common._

"Are you here to beg for your life?" she asked.

Tyrion snorted.  "I'm here because you summoned me."

"Did I?" she asked vaguely.

Tyrion ground his teeth. The wine could not have addled her brain this badly.  _Okay, let's play games them._   He tried for the only gambit he had.

"I'm not going to beg, dear sister.  I am beyond caring for my life, and I won't waste my breath begging you for the lives of the people in Kings Landing either.  You hate them, they hate you.  But I am going to ask that you consider the life on the one thing you might care about.  That baby.  You've always loved your children, Cersei.  More than anything, more than Jaime.  You can still save this one. If you surrender.  Please."

His sister's hand went instinctively to her stomach, caressing the slight swelling.  For a moment, it appeared that there were tears in her eyes, but she took a sip of the wine, and they were gone.

"Surrender?" She whispered.  The word clearly tasted bitter on her lips. "To the Dragon Queen?  Do you think, Tyrion, that if I did that, she'd just let me go?  Just ride out of here, so I can go and live happily ever after at Casterly Rock, or Pentos?"

Tyrion faltered.  "Maybe not.  But you could bargain, if not for your life, then the life of your child."

Cersei rolled her eyes.  "And what life would that be?  The bastard child of incest?  Do you seriously think that the child would get any more of a happily-ever-after from that Targ slut than I would?"

Tyrion met her eyes, and made sure she understood he meant what he was about to say.  “Daenerys doesn’t kill children, Cersei.  And the babe would in any case be no threat to her worth killing.  Jamie could-“

"Jaime could, could he?  What could Jaime do?”  She laughed, a high, cruel sound. “What would he do with a baby?  He never even held his own."  She frowned at that, and poured herself another drink. "Perhaps he would give it to his ugly great cow?  She might be happy take it, given she surely lacks the parts to have one herself."

Tyrion's hopes plunged.   _So she knows about Brienne._   That made the situation much more volatile.

He decided to change the subject. 

"Qyburn tells me you've made arrangements with the warlocks of Qarth.  That was foolish, Cersei."

"Really?  I think it worked quite well."

"You're talking of that serum you gave me?  It was a truth serum, was it?"

"Not a truth serum, so much as a talking serum.  As you love to run that mouth of yours, dear brother, it worked particularly well on you.  Varys, he was not so susceptible."

“Was?”

Cersei shrugged. Tyrion swallowed.

"Be that as it may, you're a fool to trust warlocks, Cersei.  They have no loyalty to you and they are perusing their own agenda."

"As is everyone.  But they hate Daenerys, that is enough for now."

Tyrion's hand tightened on the cup, and his knuckles went white. “How can you be so blind? They will betray you, and bring ruin to your realm.  As will Euron.  He told me as much, quite openly."

She snorted.  "Euron is a fool, but a useful one."

 _She thinks she's brilliant and all others are fools,_  Tyrion thought,  _that is her weakness._   _That, and being_ _borderline insane._

Tyrion tried one, final time, to get through to her. "What has happened to you, Cersei?  What has made you like this?  You didn’t used to be a monster.  Do you remember, when we were children, how I could make you laugh, and clap, by flipping across the table? Everyone would stop to watch, but they were watching you, not me. You.  You had friends, and admirers, and love, from Jaime and so many others. Look at yourself, now Cersei.  You haven't laughed like that for years. You drink alone, like me.  Look at what you have become."  

He could hear the desperation in his voice, but didn't care.  He  _was_  desperate.   

Cersei scrutinised him for a long time, green eyes blazing like wildfire.  For a brief, glorious moment, as something resembling sadness passed across her face, and Tyrion thought that, just maybe, he had got through to her. But then, almost as soon as it appeared, the sadness was gone, the sneering mask fell back into place. 

"You ask what happened to me?" She smiled. "I became a queen, imp. A queen who does what she likes.  I no longer have to pretend to be what I am not, some simpering little trophy wanted only for her cunt.  I've come into my own. I make my own decisions, and I am not going back."

Tyrion threw his hands up in exasperation.  "You want to be a queen?  Fine!  Be a queen!  But look who have surrounded yourself with since becoming one!  Murderous warlocks, that insane Greyjoy,  your mindless monstrosity.  You've alienated everyone who ever loved you.  Even Jaime, and he loved you beyond reason. These people you rely on now are not you're allies, they are sycophants and interlopers and they are buggering the realm you claim to rule for their own gain.  Are you really going to continue to let this happen?  Are you going to continue this descent until there is no one and nothing left, including nothing of you?"

Tyrion was shaking when he finished, his voice thundering through the room.  He took a deep breath and quaffed the rest of the wine, ready for the worst. 

Cersei barely reacted, other than to take another sip of hers.

"I'm not descending, Tyrion," she said finally. "I'm rising, and I do not care what I'm stepping on as I do.  I'm going to ensure that the Lannister name lives for millennia and I'm keeping you here to watch, little brother.  With any luck, Jaime will join us too."

Tyrion starred at her in shock. "What have you planned."

"Wait and see," she grinned. "In the meantime, have another wine, you're much more entertaining drunk."

 

   **JAIME**

**The Dragon Queen's Camp  - Beside the Blackwater Rush**

Jaime rode into the Dragon Queen's camp on a horse that was drenched in sweat and barely upright.  He'd ridden hard for days.  He felt exhausted and no doubt looked terrible, and he was halfway out of the saddle before his mount had even stopped cantering. Divested of its rider, it finally came to a confused halt. The poor beast seemed stunned to find it was finally getting a rest. 

“Ser Jaime,” Davos appeared at his side, as he handed the horse's reigns to a young boy. "It is good to see you are well, although I am a little surprised to see you here..."

Davos sounded hesitant, despite the warm welcome.  _He probably thinks I am here about Riverrun, which I suppose I am..._

Jaime was still unclear how exactly he'd become friends with this grizzled old smuggler, an ally of Stannisof all people, but it had happened, and he was grateful for it.  Still, he was short on time.  

“I need to speak with Jon,” he said, advancing toward the camp. “Urgently.”

Davos smiled uncertainly and laid a hand on Jaime's arm. “No doubt, but you’ll need to wait…”

Jaime shrugged off the hand. “I can’t.  This is important.”

“So is what he’s doing...”

“I doubt it is as important as this.”

“Right now, it probably is to him..." Davos smirked, which irritated Jaime.  He was beginning to suspect he was the subject of some kind of joke. 

Jaime gave the Onion Knight a look that was both perplexed and frustrated.  _I don't have time for this shit._ "What could possibly be so important..."

"Consummating his marriage", answered another voice.  “Or something like that.”

Jaime stopped dead in his track and looked up to see Jorah approaching. He wondered if he had misheard. “His marriage ... What the fuck?”

“Jon just married her Grace, an hour ago,” Jorah explained.  Jaime had some suspicions about the knight's feelings for Daenerys, but other than mild amusement, his tone was unreadable.  _If he is heartbroken he hides it well. Better than I could._

Jaime laughed, the only reaction that seemed appropriate. “What ... what did I miss?”

“Plenty,” said Davos.  “Come and have a drink while we catch you up.”

Jaime dithered, clutched the pommel of his sword and looked toward the command tent.  He didn't really have time, but, nor, apparently, did he have much of a choice.

"Very well..." he sighed, following the other two knights to one of the tents. He adjusted his tone to something more conversational. 

"We're in the middle of nowhere. Where did you even find a septon to marry them..."

A few rounds of wine later, and Jorah and Davos had explained what they knew of the situation.  

“Wait, wait ..." Jaime stammered, having listened to the full tale.  "You're telling me that Jon is not just Rhaegar'sson, but Rhaegar's legitimate son?"

"Yes," said Jorah.

"By Lyanna Stark?"

"Yes."

"Who he married in secret?"

"So it would seem."  

Jaime's head hurt.  He was exhausted.  He hadn't had enough rest or alcohol to deal with any this, be it the reality of the situation, or the memories that it stirred in him. 

 _Rhaegar._ Jaime's memories of him were as clear as if made yesterday.  The prince had been tall and handsome, with his silver-gold hair and violet eyes, full of easy charm and grace.  He had sung and danced and recited bloody poetry.  Jaime struggled to see many similarities between the Targaryan prince and the short, dark, broody Jon Snow.   _The intensity maybe?  The calmness?_

"He certainly favours his mother's side..." Jaime observed.  _He's m_ _ore Stark than the Starks._

 _But if he is Rhaegar’s son._ Jaime tried to work through his feelings about this new information, but was coming up short.  Certainly, he felt none of the contempt for Rhaegar that he had for Aerys.  Rhaegar was a king he would have served gladly. O _r at least I thought I would have until about five minutes ago, when I found out what he did to poor Elia..._   

Jaime had only been only a teenager, sixteen, when he last saw Rhaegar.   Immersed in legends of knighthood and valor, he'd thought Rhaegar to be near a god.  Somehow, he'd held onto that delusion, even as Robert's rebellion gained ground and Aerys began to go completely fucking nuts. On their final meeting, he had begged Rhaegar to take him to the front, take him away from Aerys and his madness, and let someone else, anyone, guard his father.  But Rhaeger had refused.  For once, he'd even been honest about the reason, telling Jaime that Aerys feared Tywin even more than Robert: " _He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour._ "  

At that point, Jaime had realised what he truly was - a boy, used as a hostage, not chosen as a knight. It was a painful memory, the sudden realisation that his life has been a lie.  That he'd given up Castery Rock not for honour and glory, but because he had been tricked into embarrassing his father.   _And for Cersei of course, but that was more complicated._ He'd stood his ground and argued with Rhaegar, but the prince had reminded him that he had promised to obey. " _Changes will be made. We shall talk when I return,'"_ he'd promised.  

But they never talked, because Rhaegar never returned.  He died at the Trident, slain by Robert, who hated Rhaegar for no real reason other than that he got between Lyanna Stark's legs first. 

Since that time, Jaime had tried, very diligently, not to think about Rhaegar, because that made him think about Elia, and about her children, and how he had failed to protect them. It made him remember how the Mountain had laid out their poor, battered bodies before the Iron Throne. He still felt sick to think of it.  _Gods,_ it was even more painful to think that that poor, sad girl had been set aside and disgraced prior to being murdered.  _W_ _hy?_ He couldn't fathom it. 

"Princess Elia was a loyal woman, kind and gentle and a very good mother,"  Jaime said firmly.  "I...can't understand why Rhaegar would put her aside, although it does make more sense that he would elope with Lyanna than he would abduct her.  I never believed he did that."

"No, I neither," said Jorah. "Rhaegar could be selfish and vain, but he was no rapist.  I assumed there was more to the story."

Davos picked up the bottle of wine and refilled everyone's cups. "On what grounds could a man put his lawful wife aside anyway?" he asked. 

Jaime shrugged. "Maybe because she could not have more children, but he already had two, and one a healthy boy.  Perhaps, as the prince, he didn't need grounds, just a pet High Septon. I don't think the princess knew though." 

 _Surely she didn't?  She had never told me._ They had not been friends, exactly, but they had been closer than acquaintances, and Jaime thought he had been kind to her, and devoted to her, and by that time he was all she had.  

_And I failed her, didn't I?  Another fucking failure to add to my tainted record._

"We'll probably never know the real reason," Jorah lamented 

"No,"  Jaime said.  "But it doesn't matter. Whatever the reason, if this is true, it changes everything." 

"How so?" Jorah asked. 

"There is now a legitimate heir.   _The_ legitimate heir."

Davos snorted.  "I think we're way past comparing family trees now."

Jaime shook his head.  "No.  It gives Cersei an out.  She would never surrender to Daenerys.  Her pride wouldn't allow it.  But maybe, with a true heir, and the prospect of walking away, with her reputation and dignity intact.  Maybe...” 

Was he grasping at straws?  He really did not know whether his sister could still be reasoned with.  But this was  _something_  to take to her. 

Davos snorted, "Pity Aegon Targaryan just got married, or we could offer her his hand and be done with it."

"That would be my father's solution, yes," Jaime agreed, rolling his eyes. 

**AEGON TARGARYAN**

**The Dragon Queen’s Army - The War Council**

And so, the former Jon Snow, now Aegon Targaryan, was married.

To his aunt. He wished he didn’t know that, but he loved her nonetheless.

The wedding ceremony, if you could call it that, was a simple hasty affair, and probably not at all what Daenerys would have expected for a royal wedding.  For his part, Jon had no expectations, having never expected to get married at all, given he'd been a brother of the knight's watch, sworn to celibacy.  He'd never really even thought about marrying Ygritte, although he had entertained many a dream about running away with her, and raising a family free from the rules and restraints.  He knew in his heart that he could not have forsaken his vows and condemned a child, even a wildling child, to bastardy.  He knew too well the pain of that heritage. 

Having decided to take their vows, Dany and he had found, through pure chance and with the always useful assistance of Davos and some locals, a septon from a nearby sept willing to marry them.  The man had little training, and no letters, and stumbled over the ceremony as he stuttered through half-remembered passages.  It was no matter.  He had no cloak to drape across Dany's shoulders either, but he figured that rather irrelevant given she was already a dragon anyway.

_If she wants a proper wedding, I suppose we can have one later._

They arrangement was not an easy one, not like it would have been, _before_.  But they had time to work things out.  For now, they just needed to be able to send the ravens.  Aegon Targaryan and Daenerys Targaryan had returned and united to dispose the usurper Cersei Lannister, and to reclaim their rightful throne.  

The possibility of sitting on that throne filled Jon with a cold, hard dread, but he put those longer term concerns out of his mind. He would do what he had to to be rid of Cersei. Dany, at least, would sit comfortably on that iron chair, even if he would rather be  _anywhere_  else but next to her at that time, and they would rule Westeros. 

 _She is my queen,_ he thought, watching her as she slept.   _In more ways than one._

Jon awoke the next morning to find that Jaime had arrived during the night, wanting to speak with him. He called the war council - Dany and he, Jorah, Davos.  Jaime, to a point.   _So few left._   How had it come to this?  The Dothraki were soon to chose a new Khal, but the process was a trying one.  The unsullied were leaderless without Grey Worm, although fanatically loyal to Dany. 

They remaining members of the council turned their attention to Jaime, as he addressed Jon.

"I said I would negotiate with Cersei if I thought we had something to offer her." He started, looking at Jon Snow. "You might be it.  You might not, but there are limited other options."

"What are you proposing?"

"A peaceful transition, from one rightful heir to another, whose existence was, until recently, unknown.  In exchange, Cersei gets to live, in relative comfort, be it here or elsewhere."

Jon could feel Dany stiffen with rage at the proposal.   _She wants vengeance, and rightly so._

 _"_ Cersei has killed thousands of people, many deliberately, and you are suggesting that we just, what, forget about that?"  She demanded scornfully.

Jaime met her gaze without flinching, "In order to save thousands more, yes."

"She murdered my friends!" Dany cried.

Jaime slammed his golden hand on the table. "And you incinerated mine!"

The room fell silent.  Jaime stared at the shocked faces, then took a deep breath. "I am trying very hard not to be bitter about that!"

Jon raised a hand.  "It is war, we have all done things we otherwise would not."

"Cersei is a monster,” Dany said firmly.  “She must be punished for what she has done."

"No," Jaime said neutrally.  “You _want_  to punish her.  That doesn’t mean it _must_ happen.   If you a willing to forgo revenge, you might succeed with conquest.”

Dany fixed him with a long look. "I know you still have feelings for her.  You know our plans. Why would I trust you to return to her side to make this offer and remain loyal to us?"

"I love her. I've always loved her.  I don't deny it.  But she is not the only person I love.  And, there are more important things than love."

There was a quaver in Jaime’s voice that left Jon with some doubt as to whether Jaime actually believed that.  Dany was dubious too.

"That's your answer?  Priorities?" She scoffed.

Jaime visibly ground his teeth.  "I know you don't trust me.  No one trusts me.” His tone dripped with both warning, and desperation. "But you have to listen to me."

The use of _have w_ as a mistake.  Dany responded harshly. "I do not _have_ to do anything in relation to you, Ser Jaime."

Jon realised this was not going well.  He didn’t know how far he could trust Jaime either.  He thought the man had reasonably good intentions, but Cersei’s influence was likely insidious.  He remembered Ygritte, the agony of being torn between love and duty, how impossibly hard it was to choose the later when in the company of the person you love. And without Brienne here to guide him...

But they needed Jaime.  He reached out an put a calming hand on Dany’s arm.  She glanced at him, and spoke without words.   _Hear him out._ She relented. "But I do choose to listen to you."

Jon nodded and smiled.  _We are good together.  This can work between us._

"Cersei will have a plan,” Jaime said. “She always does. But it will not be a long term plan. It will be something aimed winning as quickly as possible.  And I doubt she will care who gets caught in the net of it."

“You still think she's provoking us?" asked Jon.

“Yes. She wants you to attack her.  Doing so is very likely going to end badly, even if it is your best option.”

"I don't believe you.” Dany said. “You’re only saying to dissuade us from attacking your sister.”

Jaime looked her squarely in the eyes. “I am not lying to you, your Grace.  If I wanted to just go back to Cersei, I could have ridden right there, but I rode here. But let’s say my only motivation is to fuck my sister, what is the consequence for you? I am not on your war council. My only encounter with your dragon is when it nearly ate me.  What is it that you think I know?”

Dany seemed to ponder that question. 

Jorah sighed. "He’s one man, and a handless one at that, your Grace. What does it matter if he returns to her?” 

Dany’s conflict was evident, and she looked to Jon.  He nodded, but he could tell she was not convinced.  Her anger at the Kingslayer could not easily be abated.  He could understand it, even if he didn’t share it.  Jaime was partially responsible for Ned’s death too, and on one view for the whole war.  Jon felt anger at that, and yet he didn’t hate Jaime, and even if he did, he could have forgone vengeance for the greater good.  A decade ago he may have feared that his lack of anger was evidence of lack of love, but he now knew better.  

_I am the ice to her fire, we balance each other.  This will work._

“Your Grace,” Jaime said, his voice now much calmer. “I believe she may be pregnant with my child.”

The words cut through the room.  Davos and Jorah both swore. Jon stared at the Jaime in shock.  An open secret or not, to hear the confession of the twins’ treasonous, incestuous origins first hand was still unexpected.

Dany, however, softened at the confession. 

Finally, she nodded.  “Very well.  I have no desire to risk lives unnecessarily.  But Cersei must abandon all claims to the throne and live under supervision at Casterly rock.  And any amnesty will last only so long as I do not hear even the rumour of sedition or rebellion.”

Jaime nodded. ”I’ll try”.

A thought occurred to Jon. “You know that she may have killed Tyrion?"

Jaime shook his head. "I don't think so.  If she had killed him, she would make sure we knew.  She has another purpose for him. But if I am wrong? Then the last shreds of anything that used to be Cersei are gone.  That makes anything else I have to do easier."  He couldn't help the slight hitch in his voice at the end. 

"And what is she want you to stay with her, as the price?" Dany asked.

"She may.  She knows I’ll honour any promise I make to her.  And it's not ... it's not an unbearable price.  For peace." His voice cracked.  Jon wondered if the possibility of this was why he had not brought Brienne.

Jorah coughed.  "How will we know if you succeed?"

"I'll ring the bells in surrender.  If I do, stand down.”

Dany nodded.  Jon said “agreed.”

Davos held out his hand.  "Well, Lannister, I don’t think any of us hold any great hope.  But good luck."

Jaime nodded. "I think I'm going to need it.  And if I fail, so will the people of King's Landing."

 

**VARYS**

**The Black Cells**

It never failed to amuse Varys that Cersei thought she was clever.

Oh, she had a certain level of book smarts, coupled with some rat cunning, but her narcissism meant she could never truly understand anybody, and she habitually underestimated everybody.  Varys included.

Varys could, off the top of his head, name half a dozen truly stupid things that Cersei had done, including dismissing Barristan, supporting the High Sparrow and screwing dim-witted Lancel, but these all faded in comparison to putting him in the Black Cells.  Didn't she know he used to watch over the Black Cells?

Varys sat silently in the filthy dark for as long as it took to formulate a plan.  He then waited a little longer, to ensure he was alone, before moving to the back of the cell and gently scouring the bricks.  Each of the cells was different, and he was not quite sure which one he was in, but eventually he found the loose stone he was looking for, and began bothering it out and then adjusting others to work the complicated system of pullies and counterweights that opened the hidden door.

It was much easier to get into these things than out, but with no other distractions, and in no time at all, he was out of his cell and in the secret passages beneath the Red Keep.  Now he had to get to work. 

He had been gone years.  His little birds were mainly grown, the new flock were, according to his sources, loyal to Qyburn.  He didn’t have time to remedy that, so Qyburn was a problem for another day.  The immediate issue was the warlocks and the Golden Company.

Varys was not by nature a violent person.  He had a working understanding of military strategy, but it was not a strength.  He did, however, have a very good understanding of politics and economics.

Cersei had borrowed from the Iron Bank to fund the Golden Company.  But warlocks, whether on a revenge quest or otherwise, were expensive.  The Lannister mines were empty, and the castle was in Dany’s hands anyway.  Highgarden had already been plundered to pay the first loan.  The Riverlands were in the midst of chaos, and the Storm Lands were barely any better.  Without enough gold, someone was going to get screwed. 

The Golden Company was famous for never breaking a contract, but they expected to get paid.  Varys wondered what they would do if they found out that Cersei wasn’t planning on keeping that bargain.   

If he could just get to the right records, he might be able to find out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, both (possibly) pregnant queens are drinking, although Dany only has a little watered wine. I pondered that, but ultimately it is just what people did before we understood the medical implications of it and I couldn't suspend the disbelief sufficiently to have Dany think otherwise (or Cersei care). There might be a few measters who suspect, but most people would have no idea of the risks, and given the poor state of sanitation, wine or beer may still be safer than the water anyway.


	7. Episode 805 - The Bells - Part 2 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the battle begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I learned writing this - 4 episodes was not enough to wrap up all the storylines. As always, this is very show-verse, very different to the books, and very different to the emotive stuff I usually write. For good or for ill, I have also continued to try to give it the same lighter, more action-y tone as the later seasons of the show, with perhaps a touch more overt magic thanks to needing to do something with Bran.

  **SANSA**  

**The Godswood - Winterfell**

 

“What are you doing out here, Bran?”

Sansa pulled her cloak over her chest as she approached the Weirwood Tree, her ever present protectors, Brienne and Podrick, close on her heels. Even by the standards of the North, it was freezing.  Her booted feet sunk into the powdery snow as the wind whipped her hair about her face.   

Bran - or what passed for Bran these days - sat beneath the huge weirwood tree, swaddled in furs and blankets.  He wore that distant, bored look that made Sansa shudder inwardly. 

“Can’t you feel it?” He asked her, as she approached. 

“I can’t feel anything, including my fingers, and I doubt you can either.  Come inside now, before you die from the cold.”

"I don't care about the cold."

"Well, you may not, but your circulation probably does," Sansa nodded to Pod, who hurried to move behind the wheelchair.  "Come on, in. Now.”

Bran shook his head.  "No, I need to stay, and watch."

 _Watch what_? She eyed him uncertainly. _Does Bran see what has happened, what is happening, or what will happen?_ It was so unclear. And so creepy. 

"I thought you could do that anywhere?" Sansa asked, after a moment. 

"It is strongest here."

 _By the heart tree,_ she deduced.  Her eyes wandered to the face carved in the trunk, with its gnarled eyes and gaping mouth.  

Beside her, Brienne tensed. “What do you see?  Is all well in the South?”

Bran turned to look at the knight, or at least to look in her direction.  _Did he ever actually look at anything? "_ It is too dark to tell.”

Sansa forced down a wave of frustration. _Too dark._ Was that literal or metaphorical?  _What is he doing watching if he can't see anything?_ It was so ridiculous.  Yet Bran had proven himself right enough times that she had to believe this was more than an insane flight of fancy. 

 _If he can see the future, could he change it?_   _Would he care to do so?_

Sansa got the impression he would not.

 _Bran would have cared,_ she thought sadly.

_But that’s not Bran.  Not really._

Sansa shuddered inwardly.  It was not just too cold to see, it was too cold to think, and too terrifying too.  

"Well, it's night, nothing's happening, and I am not going to allow my little brothertoo become a permanent fixture.  Come in _now_."

At glance from Sansa, Pod started to push Bran inside.  Confined to his wheelchair, the youngest Stark could do little to resist, although he turned back to stare at the tree until it was well out of sight.   

Sansa had the distinct feeling  that the tree was watching them back.

 

**JON/AEGON**

**The Targaryan Camp - Beside the Blackwater Rush**

The wind howled and battered menacingly against the canvas tents, but Jon barely noticed.  He was absorbed in the sheer joy of the moment, running his hand over Dany’s stomach, caressing the unborn child within.  _I am to be a father_.  It was still unbelievable.  

He had thought his life had a clear path - the Wall, duty, honour, a glorious death.  _O_ _r at least a meaningful one._   A death away from Catelyn and the family his very existence brought shame and dishonour to. He’d been fully prepared for that, longed for it even. And yet, here he was now, no longer a bastard, but a dispossessed prince. Married, with a child on the way, and an army beholden to him and his wife. How had it come to this? 

It was so unexpected a turn that Jon could hardly process his feelings about it, beyond a vague bewilderment and a determination to get this cursed war finished so this new life could properly start.

_One watch has ended, but a new one has begun  My watch over my wife and child. My queen._

Granted, this new watch would be much easier if it did not involve having to watch his pregnant wife ride a dragon into battle in a day's time.  It made him feel ill to think on it.

Sensing his disquiet, Dany ran her fingers gently down his arm.  “What are you thinking?” she whispered. 

He contemplated, for a moment, offering up a some white lie.  But she would guess, she always did. So he decided to be honest. 

“That I don’t want you on the front lines of a war.”  

It sounded like a whine, even to his own ears, but Dany seemed to take it with surprising perseverance. 

“I know,” she smiled at him, that soft smile she reserved only for her closest associates. “But I must.”

He frowned, and then said firmly.  “No. The child .. You must not.”  

He knew immediately that he had chosen the wrong tone. Dany stiffened, and her smile was gone, replaced with a sour frown, and she abruptly turned away from him, moving out of his reach.

 _I must not use ‘must’ with my queen._  

The graceful lines of her back rippled as she leaned over and picked up her long coat, then started pulling it on as she climbed out of bed.  The temperature in the tent had dropped from cold to freezing.

“I am doing this _for_ our child, Jon,” she said firmly, harshly. “In any case, we have two dragons and only two riders.  Unless you know of _another_ secret Targaryan...”  the insinuation of some kind of betrayal on his part still sat between them, bloated and repellant, “...I will be at the front of _my_ army tomorrow, on Drogon, as we planned.”

 _My army.  Not ours._ Nothing was yet “ours”.  He wondered whether that would ever change ( _it will have to_ ) but he didn’t yet know how to broach the subject.  There were bigger issues to confront than their own marital power struggles. 

Now out of the bed, Dany started pulling on her clothing, unnecessarily aggressively.  Jon closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts.  

She was proud, and brave.  But she was also reckless. And perhaps even a little selfish, to fly into battle with new life inside her. Not that he would tell her. He kept picturing her, small and fragile, falling from that dragon, the tiny body inside her plummeting too.  _What kind of husband puts his wife and child in danger like that?   What kind of husband allows it?_   

But how could he stop it? He could not talk her out of it, could not talk her out of anything really, and making demands was only likely to harden her heart, perhaps make her angry.  And an angry Dany was even more likely to do something reckless than the usual one. 

When she was dressed, Dany turned back to him.  Her anger had defused, and she smiled that soft, warm smile again.  “A few days, no more, and we will be victorious. The people will be free of Cersei, and her corruption, and we will rule as king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon nodded, blankly. _We again._ He was still not certain how that was going to work, particularly given the existence of only one Iron Throne.  He wasn’t fool enough to ignore that other people would have other ideas about his rulership, including suggesting that he rule alone.  Westeros had never been inclined toward queens. _I don’t want it._ He reminded himself, firmly. _I wasn’t trained for it, I lacked nearly every talent necessary to hold it, and I have absolutely no intention of taking it from Dany._  

She would be the stronger leader.  She can bring peace. She is the only option.

That was why he had bent his knee to her to begin with.

 _Yes, that was why I bent the knee_ , he told himself, again. _Sansa has it the wrong way around.  I didn’t bend the knee because I loved her.  I bent the knee because she understood the threat of the night king, she put her interests aside, fought for the living, proved herself worthy, and it was then that I loved her._

Yet even as he loved her, he couldn’t deny the seed of worry and doubt had sprouted in his stomach. The fear that he was blinded by love, and obsession.  Jaime Lannister had backed Cersei for too long out of some twisted devotion and the delusional belief that one day, when they won, things would be different.  A dark, slithering part of him wondered if he was making the same mistake.  

 _Dany is not Cersei_ , he reminded himself. 

 _But there are signs._ Riverrun worried him. White Harbour worried him.  The Tarlys.  The stories and fragments he heard from the East.  Crucified men, and wars and death.  

 _But I too have punished betrayal with death_ .  I _killed a boy,_ a friend _for disloyalty. I executed a loyal man. I would do it again.  I may have to._

And so he told himself.  

_But the Lannister army at Riverrun had surrendered._

_They. Had. Surrendered._

_And so had Dickon Tarly._

Jon had never met Dickon, but the man was forever associated in his mind’s eye with Sam.  Poor, loyal, brave Sam, who thought himself a coward, but who died just as bravely as his brother in the end.  _And far more usefully._ He thought of Sam, burning, and shuddered. 

No, he was overreacting. Even if Lannister was right, and Dany had a hot temper that echoed her father, she had no signs of his madness, and none of the cold, conspiring malice of Cersei either.  She was kind and generous and she had known hardship and persevered and triumphed.   

_And I love her.  We love each other, we will listen to each other, for the child, if nothing else._

He rolled out of bed and searched for his breeches and shirt, as Dany straightened her hair. How she kept it so neat when riding a dragon in windswept skies he had no idea. His almost always fell out of its ties within minutes of getting up there.

“You are too brave for your own good,” he told her resignedly. _And probably too brave for the good of our child._ “I just continue to hope that we may not need to fight.”

“Hope?” she laughed at that. “You have faith in Ser Jaime?”

Jon nodded. “Yes.  But not in Cersei.”

“I don’t have faith in either.  They are both honourless Lannisters. And he has no love for me.”

 _That_ Jon couldn’t deny. “He loved your brother, my father.”

“And he murdered _my_ father.”

Jon sighed.  “He did. But, Dany, your father was a cruel man, he watched him burn men in their armour.”

She turned to look at him, fixed him with a cold glare. “And did nothing about it until his father's rebellion was at stake.  In any case, I’ve burned hundreds of men in their armour too, Jon.  Most of them Lannisters. If that is Ser Jaime’s touchstone for betrayal, I am far from safe.”

Jon felt a cold ripple of fear run through him, although he couldn't quite discern from what.  He pushed it down. “ _T_ _hat_ was on the battlefield, and you took no pleasure in it.  There is a difference.” 

Dany gave him an incredulous look and shook her head. _What is it she thinks I do not understand?_

When they completed dressing, Jon followed her out into the camp as she made her way over to the dragons.  It was still dark, the very first hint of dawn’s first light shimmered on the horizon. 

Drogon and Rhaegel had been hunting during the night, the skeletons of livestock scattered at their feet.  Jon gave them a quick glance. A horse, certainly, and a goat maybe, but he didn’t want to look too closely. He would likely have to compensate more farmers for their losses, but with what?  Gold was less valuable than food these days, and he had very little of either.  

He stood and watched as Dany made her way to Drogon’s side.  She patted her first born child, and then turned back to look at him. 

“There are rumours of Lannister troops moving on the Rose Road and the Gold Road.  I’m going to do some reconnaissance. I will see you and the host outside Kings Landing tonight.  Weather permitting, we attack on the morrow.”

He watched her climb onto the dragon, trying to assuage the feeling of ominous dread churning in his stomach as she did.  

Rhaegal gave him an inquiring look, nearly grinning at him from behind the bones. Jon shook his head. _No, not this morning._ Maybe he was losing his mind, but he was sure the dragon shrugged, as if to say _your loss._ The creature then stretched his massive wings, bunched the muscles in its legs, and took off after his mother and brother, quickly disappearing in the pre-dawn gloom.  

Sighing deeply, Jon turned back to the camp.  The men were already getting ready, tents being pulled down as hard rations were passed around. They would be marching within the hour, and reach Kings Landing that day.

 _And so it begins._   

**VARYS**

**The secret passages beneath the Red Keep**

Varys surveyed Cersei's study with interest, taking in the desk, the furniture, the impressive collection of gold everything.   _Attractive, but impractical.  A little like it's mistress._

Upon leaving the Black Cells, it had taken Varys little time to make his way through the secret passages of the Red Keep, and then through some slightly less secret passages, to the kitchens, the armory, and now Cersei's office.  His preferred goal had been the Treasury, but he had no idea who the current Master of Coin was, or even whether Cersei had appointed someone to that role, and he decided not to risk it. Cersei would have records, she'd be too paranoid about theft and betrayal not too.  _And too confident in her own abilities, besides._ He recalled her self-satisfied smirk as she had lectured him about how she had learned all about numbers and accounts from her father, and how eminently qualified she was to supervise the realm's purse strings personally.   _How is that working work, my queen?_

Varys found what he was looking for easily enough in the locked drawers of her desk - the locks presented little trouble to the man who had ordered the manufacture of most of the furniture in the room.  It was a letter from Qarth, confirming receipt of payment for the services of three "advisers." Quite a tidy sum had exchanged hands in exchange for knowledge about some plague from the east. A further look through the remaining papers revealed the extent of the borrowings from the Iron Bank, and a copy of a written agreement with Commander Strickland that the money would be used to pay his men.  Clearly it hadn't been. Varys imagined the Golden Company, and perhaps also the Iron Bank, would very much like to know about this.

He had shoved the documents into his stolen rugsack, opened the concealed door out of Cersei's office, and made his way back through the bowels of the Keep.  Around him, the castle began to stir.

He’d then made his way back to his cell, and waited for the slop to be delivered to break his fast.  No one came.  He wondered if Cersei had forgotten him, if the gaolers themselves were preoccupied, or if the idea was to leave him to rot. He bundled clothing in the black corner and exited again.  

The dark corridors and secret passages of the Keep were his territory, his home and he found it almost comforting to be back. There was a long passage under the Keep that led to a room where he used to meet with his little birds.  He knew through his sources that Qyburn had co-opted some of them, but he contemplated that the older ones, Arthur perhaps, would remember him fondly. Fondly enough to talk to him, anyway. 

The familiar old door was still concealed in the stone, but it was newly and differently locked - likely Qyburn’s work.  Varys had to tinker with the mechanism for many precious minutes to try to open it.  When he did, he made his way along the dark passageway and into the sanctuary. It was deserted. _Now that is unusual._ Many of the children worked at night, and at least one or two would usually camp in the hidey hole, asleep, during the day. Perhaps Qyburn was less indulgent and discouraged it?

Yet something didn't seem quite right. He sniffed.  There was a sharp, acidic smell to the room that he couldn't quite place. 

Frowning, Varys paced the room, thinking, looking for the small details, the tell-tale signs of purpose and activity. There were small footprints in the dust on the floor, crumbs in corners.  They had been here recently, no more than a day or so, perhaps more recently still. 

The table was slightly shiny, and Varys ran his fingers over it. There were patches of something slightly waxy on the timber.  Bending down, he examined the little crumbs on the floor beneath the table as well, then lifted a few on the tip of his finger to examine them.  Yes, tiny pieces of wax. _As if someone were cutting up candles._ There were many explanations, some innocuous, but Varys could not suppress the ominous feeling of dread.  

Still, there was little he could do about it now.  He turned, and headed for the armory.  And then, the ravens.  

 

**JAIME**

  **Outside Kings Landing**

 

It had all seemed so easy when he set off hours earlier.  Ride to Kings Landing, walk up to the Red Keep, announce his presence and his desire to parlay (hopefully to one of the more trustworthy goldcloaks) and immediately be escorted to the queen.  To Cersei. His twin, the long-term love of his life, the mother of his ( _neglected,_ _dead - don’t dwell on that_ ) children.  He had even almost convinced himself that she would have missed him, missed him so much she would, upon seeing him, overcome the otherwise inevitable vindictive rage, and actually listen to him. Maybe even consider his offer before asking the Mountain to crack his skull like an egg. 

Yet, as his horse cantered the remaining miles along the Gold Road to Kings Landing, the reality of his situation began to dawn on him.  He had walked out on Cersei. _Betrayed her_ (justifiably, _but she won't see it that way_ ). And Cersei did not forgive betrayal.  She was as likely to listen to him as she was to surrender her claim to Dorne.  

Still, he had to try.  The fate of Kings Landing, Cersei, and his child, all depended on it. 

As the sun rose in the east, Jaime could see the distant, shadowy outline of the Red Keep on the horizon.  

Racing toward it, he thought of Brienne, and hoped she was back at Winterfell, safe.  He wondered if a raven from her father awaited him there, even as he doubted that he would ever get to read it. _What had the odd kid said?  That there was unlikely to be an ‘after’._ If he did die, it would be in a way that made her proud.  

He thought also of Tyrion, and hoped he was still alive too, safe in the crypts beneath. _I will do what I can for you little brother._

Jaime's confidence increased a little as he got closer to the gates and found that people were still being admitted, albeit under the close scrutiny of goldcloaks and Lannister soldiers.  Human shields, no doubt - _just like Cersei to do that._ He would have thought the trick was obvious, but it clearly wasn't, as it was utter chaos at the gates, with merchants, country folk and travelers of all kinds pushing and surging toward them, even as others ( _those with more judgement or sense_ ) attempted to leave.  The line stretched back some way from the gates, and soldiers appeared to be inspecting carts and packs, confiscating a portion of any food.  

 _I should just reveal myself to the goldcloaks_ , he thought. But who knew what standing orders they had about him.  Cersei had probably given orders to kill him on site.  Best case, she'd only given them orders to lock him someplace dark and dank and throw away the key. No one in that organization would be game enough to question such commands.  

He took his place in line, but soon found himself grinding his teeth in frustration as the sun rose higher in the sky and he merely shuffled forward.  The smallfolk were sweating and stinking with fear, clutching their meager valuables - food, tools, even a man with a badly beaten book. All seemed terrified of the Targaryan usurper.  It as bewildering.  _How could the woman be so feared?_ He had thought the people hated Cersei, and yet somehow she’d managed to pitch herself as their savior, even as she plotted to use them as her armour.  _How could people be so blind._

The answer was clear enough.  He only needed to look in a mirror.  

He took his place in the line and tried to blend in.  But Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, Paramount Lord of the Westerlands, was not used to waiting, and especially not with smallfolk. He endured it as long as he could, then started to shove his way through, even pushing out of the way a woman dragging her small daughter by the hand.  She swore at him in words that would not be out of place at a cock fight in Flea Bottom. He ignored her.  _I’m probably saving your life lady.  You can thank me for it later_.  He used his left hand to slide some silver across the guard’s palm anyway, and was immediately let through. 

 _When this is over I am introducing some discipline back to the gold cloaks_ , he promised himself. 

But if getting into the city was an exercise in wrestling, getting into the Keep was all out brawl.  The gates were closed when he arrived, hundreds of people pushing at them desperately.

"We're full to burstin'," called a guard from the walls, although his voice was nearly drowned by the cries and pleas and general din. "Yeh can't come in!  Be gone damn yeh!" 

Jaime tried his last resort, standing before them waving his arm in the hope of attracting attention and being arrested.  The only attention he managed to attract was that of a handful of desperate thugs, who were clearly taken by the idea of fencing a valuable golden hand. That in turn necessitated some careful running away. Usually, Jaime's ego would have forced him to take the fuckers on, but there had been too much at stake to risk a stupid fight with some yellow-toothed hoodlum, especially one with two good hands and several large friends.  Swearing, Jaime ducked into surrounding alleys, and drew upon his boyhood knowledge of the city to escape.  

_If I survive this siege, the gold cloaks are getting actual drills and proper orders, too._

He eventually found himself beneath the largest of the bell towers outside the Keep.   _Ring the bells to signal surrender._   He briefly considered simply hiding out for a night, waiting for the battle to commence, then making his way up the tower to ring them himself, before the bloody battle even started, Cersei be damned. Maybe everyone would just calm the fuck down and go home. But he wasn't sure that Lannister soldiers would accept the signal and surrender, not without some greater authority behind them, or unless things got _really_ bad for them. 

And how bad could they get?  

Jaime pondered that.  Snow might be an admirable leader, but his track record for battle strategies was appalling.  Robb Stark he was not. There was a risk that Jon may actually stuff things up enough to lose, two dragons or no. Still, on balance, that seemed unlikely, and any failings on Jon’s part would likely be fixed by Daenerys’ fire and blood. 

He recalled with a shudder the Battle of the Gold Road, and the literal _minutes_ that had latest. 

_Any way we look at it, this will be a massacre._

He looked back up at the tower, and back to the keep.  It was tempting, but he knew he couldn’t leave Cersei to her fate without at least trying.  He _couldn’t._ And Tyrion was in that keep, too, somewhere. He couldn't abandon him either.  

Jaime made the only decision he could.  He had to get into that Keep.  He would have to waste time climbing around the outside of the cliff walls, looking for one of the so-called 'secret entrances' at the base of the cliff.  Given that at least Varys, Tyrion, Davos, Bronn and likely half of Kings Landing knew about one or more of them, they were probably better called an alternative route than a secret entrance, but they were his best chance of getting to Cersei. 

Cursing, Jaime made his way down to walls, and then out through the River Gate.  No one objected to him leaving. Eventually, he found the pass, and started on the winding and difficult path around the cliff.  With only one hand, it was even slower going than he anticipated, and it took the best part of skill and courage not to fall.  

 _So much for my role as emissary.  I’ll be lucky to get there by nightfall._  

As he paused to take a breath, he glanced out at the sea.  Euron's fleet was massed in the distance, and Yara's beyond that.  The ships were eyeing each other, bobbing the waves. One false move, and the battle would be on.  As much as he rather liked the idea of Drogon burning the smirk off Euron’s face, he couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that it was doom, rather than a dragon, hiding over that horizon.  He looked up, past the cliffs, to the tower of Meaghor's Hold. It was a long way up.  

Jon's forces should start arriving shortly. 

He needed to get climbing. 

 

**ARYA**

**Outside Kings Landing**

Arya hated Kings Landing.  It was the site of her father’s execution, the murder of Syrio, her estrangement from Sansa, and the destruction of her family.  It was filled with filth and corruption, the stink of Baratheon excess and Lannister Gold. Of poison and politics and pampered southron princelings.   

It was also the place of her first murder, that of the poor, shocked stable boy.  Of all the people she had slain, it was only that nameless boy, not much older than her, whose death still lingered on her conscience. 

Still, as much as she loathed the place, Arya has always known that she would be back here, to kill the queen. A part of her would still like to do it wearing Jaime’s face - she could just imagine the visceral, delicious delight of Cersei staring confusedly into her beloved brother's eyes as he strangled the life from her. But that was not going to happen now, and during the long ride south, she’d become rather fond of the idea of committing the murder without a disguise, loudly declaring it to be done in the name of her father, and really making it count.

As Arya and the Hound approached the city they could see the vanguard of Jon’s army setting up camp.  A few scattered tents, some camp fires. More soldiers were streaming in the west. They would all be there by nightfall.  

“Where are you going?

She looked up to see a soldier blocking their path. A northerner, by the voice, but she didn’t know him, or his heraldry. _Really should have paid more attention to that._

She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m Arya Stark. I’m going to kill Queen Cersei.”

Beside her, the Hound chuckled. “Fucking subtle.”  

The reaction of the guard was a typically blank-face stare. _I really should be used to this by now_.  Lucky for him, he didn't laugh.

“Um…” he stuttered instead. 

“Think about it,” Sandor grinned, all yellowed teeth and stretched red scars. “She helped kill the Night King.  She kills Cersei, the war’s over. There won’t be a siege. You might not even die tomorrow.”

The soldier looked uncertain as to whether even that is a good thing. “I need to go talk to my captain,” he muttered.  He backed his horse away hesitantly.  

Arya nodded indulgently at him, as she would a well-behaved dog.  “You do that.”

Sandor sneered.  “Go ahead, talk to him.”  

They shared an amused look.  Neither expected the soldier to hurry back.  

“You realise there is not going to be a siege?” Arya asked, as they dismounted, leaving the horses at the make shift stables in the camp. It was obvious from the preparations around them that Daenerys wasn’t about to wait, at least not any longer than it took Jon to get here and get ready.  “She’s just going to attack, spew fire and burn shit down and then march everyone in over the ashes.”

The Hound nodded, visibly shuddered.  “Aye, gonna be a fuckin’ inferno.  You sure about this?”  His voice was oddly gravelly, almost concerned, and he turned to face her. “You go in there with me, you may not be back out, girl.”

Arya met his gaze.  She had a job to do, and so did he, and they would complete it together.

“Never been surer.  We’ll get it done and get out.  Both of us, Sandor.”

He held her gaze for a moment, and she thought she saw a softness in his eyes, a recognition of their friendship and faith in each other.  But in a flash, it was gone.

“Let’s go kill some cunts.”

The made their way through the camp and then toward the walls, looking at the crowds outside each of the closest two gates.  Terrified smallfolk, now trapped between the foreboding walls of the city and the encamped northern army, pushing and panicking and turning on each other.  

"Fucking rats, eating each others tails," Sandor spat.

Arya was too frustrated to disagree. "They are lining up to be roasted.”

Sandor’s eyes went reflectively to the sky.  No sign of Dany. “Fuck that. I’m not being cooked while standing in line like some cunt housewife.”

Arya frowned, and scanned the walls.

“There’s another way in,” she said, cautiously. “I might be able to find it, but I’ll need time.”

“Not a lot of that,” Sandor grimaced, a particularly confronting sight on a man missing half a face and an ear.  “Those bloody so-called secret passages? If you want 'em, we better get a fucking move on.”

They turned and headed for the harbour, when a voice sounded behind them.  

“Lady Arya.  Clegane. Just in time." 

_Davos._

They turned to see the old smugger grinning at them. "You want in?  Come with me."

 

**VARYS**

  **The Red Keep**

The rookery was located above Qyburn's chambers, on the grounds of the Keep and getting there was, ironically, harder than getting into Cersei’s study. Still, Varys was no stranger both to being stealthy or to hiding in plain sight.  It never failed to amaze him how easy it was to deceive people into underestimating him. Dress brightly, add a little padding, raise his voice a notch or so, and people instantly assumed he was effete and weak.  

He took advantage of the shadows and slunk across the courtyard and into the maester’s house.  As usual, the ground floor was uncomfortably hot, and filled with the scent of potions and herbs.  Qyburn was absent.  He carefully made his way through the accommodations, taking what he needed from the stores of apothecary herbs, and headed upstairs to the rookery. 

The rookery was its usual chaotic mess of yellowed papers, scroll cases, cages and birdshit. The rookery measter was nowhere to be found either, which could mean many things, few of them good.  Still, Varys was glad not to have to do violence to the man.  He made his way through to the rookery, unpacked his rug sack and set up a work clearing a space on the large table.  He located a bird trained to fly to Casterly Rock and another to Riverrun.  They watched him with their beady, too clever eyes as he attached the contracts to each.

He made his way to the window and released the first raven.  It leaped from the window, heading north. Varys followed its path with his gaze, noting the shadowy forms of the Targaryan army filing into its camp on the northern outskirts of the city. He closed his eyes, and prayed to whatever god would deign to listen to an old skeptic like him that this would work, and then collected a second raven.

“I can't let you do that.” 

The voice came from the doorway, cold and calm. 

Varys turned toward it, only mildly surprised to see Qyburn watching him, a disarmingly placid smile plastered on his pleasant face.  The former maester did not appear to be armed, other than what appeared to be a knife at his belt and an open metal vial in one hand. Still, Varys was not one to take unnecessary chances.  He carefully put his arm down and stepped away from the bird. 

“You're a little late," the eunuch said smoothly. ''One bird is already away."

"Hmm..." Qyburn eyed Varys carefully as he walked slowly into the room, to the edge of the large centre table. He placed the vial in the edge of it.  "Surely you realise that any raven will be shot down as soon as it leaves the tower."

"Perhaps, but which guard will risk shooting down a raven from the queen? It need only reach the edge of the city walls, and then I certainly hope it is taken.  It carries information that the Targaryans will be most interested in reading."

Qyburn did not appear in the least disconcerted. 

As the two men watched each other across the room. Varys considered the possibilities.  If it came to violence, he would probably have the upper hand, but looks could be deceiving, and that vial was concerning.  Whatever was in it smelt sweet and slightly tangy.

"Well, Hand," he said calmly, "it appears it is your move."

Qyburn's smile was obsequious.  "Well, _Spider_ , it seems our options are rather limited.  Neither of us are men of direct violence, and I doubt that your mind is open to persuasion.  Still, I wonder. Surely, you of all people, a man of the world, a former servant of Aerys, recognize the risk that young woman presents?  I am fascinated. Why would you even consider putting a Targaryan back on the throne?"

Varys raised an eyebrow.  "And why are you so concerned about _my_ motivations?  I never knew you to be so altruistic Qyburn. More, an opportunist..."

"Oh, you will find that I balance my altruism and my opportunities."

"I doubt it.  Not equally in any case." Varys glanced down at the vial. "Very well. You ask why Daenerys?  My answer is that, if we are to have a king, she is as well suited to the position as any alive.  She has known hardship, and poverty, as well as power and responsibility.  She has been bought and sold, exiled, hunted and hurt, and survived and flourished through it all.  She knows what it is like to be weak, and how to be strong, and how to use that strength gently as well as firmly.  She is proud and clever and not afraid to make difficult decisions.  And she at least wants to do better than our previous rulers, even if she may not be as capable of it as I originally supposed.  But if her head is sometimes in the clouds, she is partnered to a man whose roots are in the ground.  Jon has been trained in arms, as befits a knight, but also in command and management and survival. He is a man who can hunt and cook and bind wounds and who would never consider his kingship a right.  Together, they will be wise, compassionate and experienced leaders who put the people first.'

 _At least, that is what I used to think of them_ , Varys thought, somewhat sourly.  Truth be told, recent events had shaken his faith, but the middle of a battle was no time to swap horses.  _And whatever else, Cersei must go._

His head was beginning to hurt.

"And so I ask you," Varys continued. "Why Cersei?  What are her merits?  Even her claim to legitimacy is marginal at best, particularly in light of recent developments.  You cannot possibly have a philosophical attachment to her, because she does not have any philosophical position to be attached to, other than perhaps the greater glory of Cersei.  She is uninterested in being better than anyone. Surely, you have some grander plan?"

"Perhaps I am tired of grander plans?” Qyburn said smoothly. “Or perhaps, as I told your little friend, I am simply tired of wars and battles. Five kings, three queens, many pretenders.  We watch them fall, one by one, and hope ours is the last standing.”

Qyburn’s voice was soft, mocking, almost intoxicating, and Varys felt a shiver run down his spine, as if the maester's smooth tones were conjuring a memory.  He begun to feel dizzy.  

 _"_ What have you done, Qyburn?" 

The room was spinning.  Something was amiss. 

“What have _I_ done?" Qyburn asked. "You obviously do not know her Grace very well if you believe I did anything, other than at her behest.  She does as she likes, and neither me, nor her brother, can persuade her otherwise. But I have put her plans into effect.”

Varys was finding it hard to breath.  His chest felt like a band were being wrapped around it. His lungs burnt. His eyes watered.  

That sickly sweet smell was everywhere. 

 _The flask_ , he realised.  _A p_ _oisonous miasma._

“There will be no war three queens," the maester's voice continued to drone in his ears. "The entire city sits on fire, my friend.  From its skies to its bowels. Soon there will be no more armies and no war.  I know you have always dreamed of peace.  It is a shame you will not be here to see it."

_He is speaking of pieces, not peace._

Varys' throat felt like it was closing.  He was coughing, gasping, chocking.  _Dying. I am dying._

But this was not the first time Varys had known pain, and he knew how to channel that agony into raw determination.

“I can’t let you do _that,_ ” he gasped.

Qyburn smiled sadly.  "Unfortunately, I suspect you are no longer capable of stopping me..."

Gasping, Varys collapsed forward onto the table, a dramatic movement.  He reached for the raven, as if to make his last act that of releasing it, but his hands clasped around something else.  Something he'd set on the table, behind the cages and the mess, as a precaution when he came into the room. Quicker than any would have thought possible, he raised and fired the small crossbow. The bolt twanged and he heard a satisfyingly wet sound, followed by a thud as Qyburn hit the floor. 

"And that is where you are mistaken..." he gasped, " _I_ , at least, am a man of  physical violence.  At least when I must be."

Varys let himself collapse to the floor.  Somewhere behind the desk, Qyburn gurgled and gasped.  The bolt was too small to kill instantly, but he would be down for a moment, and the poison would do its work in time. Qyburn would know that.  Barely able to breathe, Varys crawled across the tiles to where the flask lay, and reaching up, he grabbed in and threw it out of the room.  His lungs still burned and he wondered if it was too late and he was dying anyway.   _Well, I will make what time I have left count._

He waited a few minutes for the air to clear, as Qyburn lay gasping and bleeding. _How unfortunate none of your experiments can help you now._ Then he crawled over to the maester and pulled the knife from his belt. With a wicked grin, Varys held the blade up before the former maester's eyes.  "Now, let's discuss this fire...and what I can do about it."

. 

  **CERSEI**

  **Royal Solar -** **The Red Keep**

 

“Yes, what is it?” Cersei impatiently looked up at the white-clad knight who stood in the doorway to her solar. 

 _If he has come to request more provisions for the smallfolk, I’ll have_ _his skin tanned and offered up to them as a tent._ The day had been trying enough, without another irritation. 

Ser Preston Greenfield, knight of the queensguard, looked immensely nervous.  A fine sheen of sweat clung to his forehead and above his lip. His knuckles, where they gripped the pommel of his blade, were white. Cersei thought he looked to be in shock. 

 _How_ , she wondered, _did this fool come to be one of my guards_? _Appointed before my time and clearly past his_. She should have dismissed him years ago, particularly after his failure to protect them during that riot, replaced him with someone younger and more reliable. _Perhaps someone more pleasing to the eye, too,_ she thought, looking at the broad shoulders and comely face _._ _Finding someone better suited to that cloak will be one of my first tasks once I've resolved the current difficulties_. She looked forward to the selection process. Perhaps a tourney...

Ser Preston’s voice interrupted her thoughts.  It as as tremulous as his sword hand. 

"It is Ser Jaime, your Grace. He came to the doors of White Tower and handed himself in.  He begs an audience with you.  To parlay."

Cersei very nearly gasped, but caught herself.

Tyrion, beside her, clanged the decanter against the goblet he was filling, and audibly groaned out a “fucking idiot.”  She ignored him. 

"Jaime," she whispered, after a moment.  She felt a shiver of delight run down her spine.  

_Of course he has come back to me in my moment of glory! So like him, weak as a leaf in the breeze, blowing this way and that, but never falling far from the tree._

"Yes my queen," said the White Cloak, “your brother.”  

There was a slight hitch to Ser Preston’s voice.  Was he mocking her? She peered at him. Her eyesight was not what it once was, and she had to be careful to avoid obvious squinting.   _No, no this one lacks the brains for mockery_ , she assured herself.  _He is simply surprised that Jaime would dare to show his face._ But yet ... had this one not been Jaime’s man?  They had served together for years, had they not?  Cersei felt the little shiver, a tingling warning of possible betrayal.

Would Jaime return to her only to betray her?  Would he really conspire with this creature? Could he truly be so foolish?  

_Can I trust no one to be loyal or competent?_

Cersei glanced back at Tyrion.  He was standing still now, still holding that decanter in one hand and goblet in the other.  _Is he part of the plan too?  His surprise looks genuine enough, but the imp is devious, duplicitous…He could have got to anyone, sneaking around in secret passages._

 _I can trust no one.  No one is loyal and competent._  

Not her Queensguard, certainly not Tyrion. Not even Jaime. 

 _No, that’s not true.  One servant is loyal._ She cast a look at Ser Gregor, standing tall and menacing in the corner. _He_ never doubted her. 

Qyburn, too, she supposed was loyal enough, although gods knows where he had got to.   _Probably enjoying someone's last gasps of life._

Cersei contemplated briefly whether she should direct the Mountain to ‘escort’ Jaime up, and deposit Ser Preston in a cell while he was at it.  _Tempting, but no.  No, no that wouldn't work._ She needed to look confident, and she needed her Mountain here, and she had no actual basis for dismissing Preston.  Not yet.   She added finding a basis for that to her list of priorities.  

"Have the Imp taken back to his cell," she commanded him, for now. "Then bring my brother to me."

The queensguard bowed low, and nodded to Tyrion, who defiantly downed his goblet of wine in one long swallow. “And here I was so looking forward to a Lannister family reunion.”  

"You’re not a Lannister.  Get out.”

Tyrion hesitated, as if to put the decanter on the table, but then shrugged and carried it with him as he walked toward Ser Preston.  The idiot guard gaped uselessly at the insolent display but did nothing. _He is too gentle with the imp,_ Cersei thought.  _Had they been friends too?_

No, She couldn’t think on it now.  _Let Tryion take the wine, if he is drunk he will be less trouble._

Besides, she had bigger concerns.  

The Queen watched the two men leave, and then straightened her hair, smoothed her dress, pinched her lips and cheeks and adjusted her hair. _Let him know what he is missing_ , she thought.  She leaned regally against the balcony, trying for her best angle, while displaying the subtly growing belly, and waited for her brother to arrive as she pondered what she would say to him, and the conditions under which she may consider forgiving him. 

But what Ser Preston brought back, some time later, was not her brother, not truly.  He barely resembled the golden lion she remembered, presenting himself instead as a tattered, twisted simulacrum that was darker, shrunken, with a disgusting brown beard and his eyes surrounded by lines. A creature of the north and the cold. 

_He is nearly as decrepit as when he returned from Harenhal_. _The North has sucked the life from him,_ _made him into one of those creatures he went to fight_. 

She had been shocked and horrified when Jaime returned from Harrenhal, emaciated and maimed.  But she was disgusted now.  She saw little point in hiding it. She raised her eyebrows and appraised him with what she imagined was disdain.  The eyes that gazed back at her from what used to be my brother's face were not so much offended, as tired and sad. Jaime did not approach her, but stood his ground and inclined his head in greeting. 

Cersei took a breath and licked her lips.  She dropped the provocative stance. She would not bed this creature.  

_But you may need him. Step carefully._

"I knew you'd come back to me.  You always do," she said. 

The effigy of her brother nodded. "Of course.  Of course I would."  He looked over his shoulder. "You don't need Ser Preston, Cersei.  I'm not going to hurt you, you must know what."

She contemplated for a moment -  _do I?_ - but then gave the whitecloak leave to go. Was she imagining it, or did he throw Jamie a look of concern?  She felt anger boil in her stomach.  _The pretentious cunt.  He is meant to be guarding me!_ Suddenly, she was less inclined to engineer Preston's removal from the queensguard, and more like to just kill him.  _He knows too much and is untrustworthy._ _He will need to have an unfortunate accident and make room for newer blood.._.

But she kept her face carefully neutral.  “You will forgive me if I keep my mountain.” 

She directed her gaze to the menacing form lingering behind Jaime.  He followed her gaze, and she felt a little shiver of pride as he shuddered at the sight of Ser Gregor.  

Ser Preston bowed as he left.  Jaime waited for the door to close before speaking.

"You look good, Cersei," he said, casting his eyes over her stomach for only a moment. "Are you well?  Is everything well?"

"As can be expected.”  She stroked her belly, but did not answer the obvious question.  _Let him stew._ "What are you doing here?"

Was it her imagination, or did her brother stand up a little straighter, steel himself?   _He knows I will not like this._

"I've come to parlay," he said cautiously, "and to make an offer." 

"You wish to bargain?  With me?"

"I already have bargained, with the Targaryans.  I come to extend the offer to you."

She laughed him. Did he think her a fool?  A craven? A weak woman, in need of his assistance? 

"You seriously think I’ll believe you bargained on my behalf?  After you betrayed me?"

He rolled his eyes. “And you seriously think I _wouldn’t_?”  Jaime replied, taking a couple of steps toward her.  “I have been getting you out of messes your whole life, Cersei. Why would I change now?”

He walked stiffly, she noticed.  Like an old man. _Were he still Lord Commander, I would be replacing him too_.

 _Except that nothing can replace him_ , a small part of her mind reminded her.  The part of her mind that remembered she got little satisfaction from Euron and less from Lancel.  

Jaime must have seen something in her eyes, because he took a few more steps forward, a hopeful look on his worn face. 

"You've lost, Cersei.  Much of Daenerys’ host stands outside the gates right now.  The rest of the northern army presently marches toward Kings Landing, and will be here by tonight.  The dragons, too. You cannot win against such a force, even you must know that. If you resist, they will destroy this city, destroy you. In the best case scenario, you destroy each other.  Leave with me now and stop this madness."

“A well-rehearsed speech,” she sneered. 

Jaime shrugged. “I had a long ride to plan it.  But it’s a genuine one.”

_Was it really?_

Cersei turned away from him and headed to the balcony.  She sensed him follow, a looming, slightly shuffling presence on her heels.  She gazed over the roofs of the city below, but only felt frustration at the increasingly blurry view. Qyburn had told her there was little to be done about the aging of her eyes. She had ordered him to try harder.

"What are you suggesting, dear brother?  That I come with you, get on a boat, retire somewhere happily ever after?  Because if so, I already rejected that offer from my other brother.”  

Jaime drew a sharp breath at the mention of Tyrion. Cersei rolled her eyes. “Oh, he’s fine. Drinking his way through my cellar as we speak.”

Jaime let out a long breath, and continued. "For once, I have a better offer. I'm suggesting you get in a wheelhouse and return to Casterly Rock with me, with pride and honour.”

Cersei felt discombobulated. _That_ was not what she was expecting. "What?"

"Cersei, listen to me. Rhaegar's son survived."

Cersei's first thought was that she must have misheard, but when she turned to look into Jaime’s eyes, she knew he spoke the truth.  "No!” _That was impossible._

“How?  Father would never ... you saw them..."

"He had another son, Cers. Not with Elia, but with Lyanna Stark.  That son lives. He's Jon Snow, Ned's so-called bastard."

She heard only one part of that.  "Lyanna Stark had a bastard?”

 _Why, the sanctimonious little whore was a hypocrite too. How delightful._ But Jaime could not be serious if he thought that changed anything. 

“Even if that is true, who cares?  If you think I'll cede the throne to some trumped up bastard..."

"No, no bastard.  He’s Rhaegar’s legitimate child.  They were married. No one knew because the Citadel has kept it a secret.  He's the legitimate heir, Cersei. More legitimate even than Robert ever was, and more legitimate than you.”

Cersei listened as Jaime lay out what he knew.  She felt the world tilt. It was dangerous news, if true.  But surely there has been some mistake. Rhaegar had not defied his father to marry her, so why would he do so for Lyanna Stark?  The dour, horse- faced little tramp.   _No, it cannot be true._

“I don’t believe you,” she said calmly.  

"Don't you see, Cersei?" Jaime pushed on, desperation evident in his voice. "You can cede with honour.  No one will blame you. You didn't know either. The realm was in chaos, the Targaryans were largely gone, you were the last Baratheon, and the likely heir in any case. But now there is an heir with a better claim. You can renounce your title and come away, live with dignity and honour as the Lady of Casterly Rock.”

Cersei stared at Jaime.  He looked earnest, more so than she had ever seen him.  _He almost believes it possible_ , _the fool._ But she knew it wasn’t.  

"Lady of Casterly Rock?" She spat the word with disdain. "A subject of the dragon queen? Owing leal service to that whore?  How long would that last?” She stroked her stomach. “What do you think will happen to our child? Our bastard child?  Do you think he will be able to escape his legacy? Our enemies. You’re a fool, Jaime. They will chase us to end of this world.  We will never be safe!"

"You will be safe at the Rock, so will the child, Jon has sworn it,"  said Jaime stubbornly.  

But Jaime flinched at his mention of the child, his eyes dropping.   _He does not believe me_ , she thought. _He does not want to believe me.  He is a denier, like Qyburn. Like all the others._

“Jon Targaryen has sworn it,” she repeated in a mocking tone. ""Words are wind, and Jon Snow’s are no better than anyone else’s, whoever his father.  And what of you?  What is your part in this?"

He paused  He started to raise his hand, the one remaining, as if to touch her, but then he changed his mind, let it fall.  "The new king and queen are Targaryans, Cersei, they will understand as no others could. If you wish it, we can marry, raise the child.  We dreamed of this Cersei, as children. Remember that?"

His words struck a chord in her heart, a long buried childhood desire. But there was something wrong. His tone was flat, his eyes dull. _Does he think me an idiot?  Does he think I am ignorant of his beast? Did he seriously think I would welcome him back with open arms after he had lain with_ that?  He was right, once upon a time, she had dreamed of ruling the seven kingdoms with Jaime at her side. But she had been a fool, a witless, romantic fool.  Looking at him now, she felt nothing but disdain. He was crippled, scruffy and pathetic.  He did not protect their children, could not protect her, and now he had bent his knee to a northern bastard and a foreign savage.  How had she ever thought this man her equal? He was not her twin, not even her shadow.  He was beneath her.

She glared at him contemptuously. "As you said, we were children and I was a fool. Why would I ever agree to such a thing _now?_ " 

"Because the alternative is that you die."

She shrugged.  "I am not afraid to die."

Jaime went red.  "Don’t be fucking stupid,” he warned, his voice low and menacing. “Jon is an honourable man. If he makes a promise, he will keep it."

"And what of his queen?  Is she so honourable? She who crucifies and burns her enemies?”

"What of her?” Jaime said, more calmly. “I made this arrangement with Jon, Aegon Targaryan.  Who the fuck cares what she says."

 _Is he really this naive?_  "We will, when she rides her dragons to Casterly Rock and turns her fire upon us."

Jaime groaned. “Are you fucking insane?  In case you didn’t realise, she is about to ride her dragon to this fucking keep and turn their fire on you _now_!  Not tomorrow, not in some paranoid future dream.  _Now!_ ” 

He was angry, perhaps more so than he had ever been with her, even that day he left. He moved to stand directly in front of her, nearly touching, looming over her. She could smell him.  Leather and sweat and horse, like some common soldier.  _He could kill me if he wanted to_ _,_  she realised.   _If he moved quickly, before the Mountain.  He could hit me,_ _or throw me, or w_ _rap his arms around my throat and squeeze..._

A lesser woman would have cowed, but she was not a lesser woman, and she was not afraid.

She glared at him defiantly. "You really are the stupidest Lannister."

He stared at her, speechless, and for a moment she feared that maybe, just maybe, he was going to hit her.  But he took a long, deep breath and stepped back, out of her space instead.

 _He still loves me_ , she thought with some satisfaction.  She did miss him, she supposed. A part of her did long for him, for the feel of him above her, around her, between her legs.  I _could have him, that, back in an instant, if I wanted him_ , she thought. _B_ _ut why would I?_

She was past needing anyone. 

“So that’s your answer, no?”

She raised her wineglass and took a sip in answer. “No.”

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment, as if fighting some eternal battle. “Are there any terms you will accept?” 

She laughed. “I think you have it the wrong way around, sweet brother. I will never surrender, I will never live as another's slave again.  I am in control of this city, and this battlefield, and this Keep.  There are thousands of people crowded below, and hundreds of thousands sheltering in the city.  I am not afraid to kill every one of them. Every single one. No one will take this throne from me without a fight.  If your dragon queen wants it, she can come and get it, and the price be the deaths of every person sheltering in these walls, and perhaps every person in the city.  Every person your righteous queen claims to want to protect. The Red Keep will glow green.  _You_ know why. You want to be the message boy? Go tell your Jon Snow or Targaryan or whoever he is that *that*.”

Jaime laughed, a sound of near madness.  “And you’re just going to let me walk out of here to do that?”

“Oh yes,”  she purred. She took a step closer, but this time is was Jaime recoiled. _Let it be threats that keep him then._ “Because I know you will come back to me, you always do.  And in any case, if you don’t, I’ll kill Tyrion.  I always wondered whether you could improve his misshapen head by placing it on a pike.”

 

**JORAH**

**Aegon’s Camp - Outside King’s Landing**

 

Jorah ground his teeth in frustration.   He wasn't sure how many times he had to say the same damn thing. _Repeatedly_ _asking the same question does not usually achieve a different answer._

"The Golden Company are not like other mercenaries,”  he explained, _again_.  “You can’t turn up and outbid them.  They won't switch sides. Win, draw or lose, their loyalty is their greatest strength, and the reason why they have such an unimpeachable reputation.  Even Strickland is not such a fool as to gamble that away by aligning with _us_.   Not without more."  

Yet, convincing Dany’s council of this simple fact seemed nigh impossible.  Dany, Jon, Davos - they all appeared to believe that mercenaries, whatever the colour of their banners, were men of negotiable loyalty.  Jorah knew better. He had fought with the Golden Company, he _knew_ them.  They were proud men, honourable in their own way, and they were not going to swap sides simply because Jon lectured them about the rightness of his cause. 

Davos, however, smirked. "What if I did have the ‘more’ that you say we need?"

Jorah frowned.  "What are you suggesting?"

"What if they won't get paid?"  Davos asked. "Gold is important to mercenaries, even honourable ones, is it not?"

Jorah raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but there does not appear to be any question that these men will be paid.  Ser Jaime already confirmed that Cersei used Highgarden’s wealth to repay the Iron Bank. She can borrow again.”

"Aye,but what did she do with those borrowing?”  Davos held out held a wound-up scroll to Jorah.

He took it and scanned it quickly.  

"What am I looking at?"

"We intercepted two ravens from the Red Keep earlier today.  Creatures flew directly over our camp. We had thought it had a message for Cersei's allies, but it appears to be a gift to us.  Correspondence with those warlocks and the Iron Bank."  

Jorah frowned.  Davos continued.  “The scroll is a copy of a letter between Qarth and Cersei, confirming that she had paid for the services of two warlocks.  The price is steep. It is secured by the Iron Bank. _There_ goes some of the gold that was meant to secure the loyalty of the Golden Company.  I wonder what else she had purchased with it?”

_This is too good to be true._

"It could be a fake," Jorah said, cautiously. But the parchment looked expensive, the documents so intricate and boring that it probably had to be real.  

"It could be, but it isn't," said Jon firmly.

Jorah toyed with the scrolls for a moment. It wasn't much, but it was something.  

He had fought with the Golden Company for some years after his exile.  To the best of his recollection, their new leader, Harry Strickland, had been the company paymaster when he served with it.  He’d been promoted after the death of the previous commander, for reasons beyond Jorah. He had doubts as to whether Strickland was truly in charge, or a front for someone (or _something_ ) who wanted to remain unrevealed, but either way there could hardly be a better man to deal with this kind of accusation, or this kind of betrayal.  

If these documents were what they looked like, Strickland would know. 

"Would they pull out of their contract with Cersei for this?" Jon asked, seriously.

"I don't know,” Jorah pondered. “Maybe.  Receiving security of payment, or payment upfront, is a fundamental part of their operating strategy.  It’s worth speaking to them about it. At the very least, they will ask questions."

"Can you get to them?" Jon asked. 

Jorah sighed.  He thought of Dany, and wondered whether this was really what she would want.  He felt uncomfortable making this kind of decision without her. _Where is she and why isn’t she here_?  Then he thought of her tiny figure, clinging to Drogon above the city, scorpions firing bolts at her.  There was nothing he wouldn’t try for her, if it would keep her alive.  

"Probably."  _Maybe._ "I will try."

Jon nodded.  “We attack tomorrow morning.  That should give him time to consider.”

It was already growing dark.  “Close, but doable.”

In the end, it wasn't difficult.  Jorah still had enough contacts within the Golden Company to pull a few strings, and by late afternoon he was standing in a gaudy command tent, beneath the walls of Kings Landing. 

Strickland greeted Jorah with a wide smile and an extended hand, much as he would some long lost friend.  

"Mormont! It is good to see you again, although it is a shame that you are on the opposite sides.  It is never pleasant to cross blades with a former friend."

Given they had barely exchanged a dozen words while Jorah was a member of the company, the attitude immediately put Jorah on edge.  Strickland’s overpowering fragrance, and the oily scent of the grease in his hair, was almost enough to push him over it. They had certainly never been friends. 

Jorah struggled to find words.  He'd never been one for negotiations, but in this case the upfront approach seemed best anyway.

"I won't waste your time, Strickland.  I know the Golden Company's loyalty is not negotiable.  But I do wonder whether the company is prepared to fight for free.”

Strickland’s eyes narrowed.  "What do you know?"

 _Yes, gold is the way to his man’s heart, not honour._ Jorah placed the papers on the desk. Strickland picked them up, frowned and examined the documents. "Where did you get these."

"Shot down a raven."

Strickland stuck his tongue out slightly as he spoke. "They do look genuine."

"I believe they're real.  What's more, I can't see what purpose would be served in Cersei forging them."

Strickland evidently agreed.  "Although there would be purpose in your people doing so.  Still, I don’t take chances with gold. What are you suggesting that we do, Mormont?"

"We are not asking that you change sides, We can't afford you either.  But these show that Cersei certainly can't pay you. You’re due to face two dragons and the dothraki. Why throw your lives away on an unsecured risk? Ask for confirmation before engaging in battle...If you don’t get it and walk off the field, we’ll let you go." 

Strickland nodded.  “Very well. I will make inquiries.  Only a fool or slave fights for free.” 

Jorah nodded his head in thanks.  “That’s all I ask.”

 

**JON/AEGON**

**The Targaryan camp - Outside Kings Landing**

 

"'Come and get me'?  That's her answer?" Dany was incredulous.  "We allowed you to leave, to return to her, and that's the best you could do?”

"Oh, I'm sorry if she doesn't trust me more," Jaime responded, sarcastically. "It isn't as if I've been helping her sworn enemies these past months."  

“We should never have left this to you to begin with.  I am the queen.  It should have been me who parlayed."

“She won't. She doesn’t acknowledge you. She won’t speak with you. I cannot change her mind.” A beat. “Your Grace.”

Jon tried to ignore the slight edge of sarcasm on the tail end of Jaime’s voice, but he doubted Dany would be able too, at least for long. 

Truth be told, Jon had not been expecting to see Jaime Lannister again.  Notwithstanding whatever had happened between him and Brienne, Jon had been half convinced the Kingslayer would fall back into his sister’s arms the moment he saw her.  The other half of him was convinced Cersei would just kill him.  

He ground his teeth as the argument continued. 

“Then she burns,” Dany shrugged. "I almost prefer that."

“Burning? Really?  How surprising.  She surely won't be expecting that.  It's not like you haven't done it before." 

"And I'll do it again."

"Really?  And risk every woman and child in that wretched keep while you're at it?’” 

“They made their choice when they accepted her protection!”

“Which they only did because they are scared of you!”

At that, Jon had had enough.  He slammed his hand on the table.  Papers and cups jumped. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he swore. “Don’t you see what she’s doing?  She is trying to drive a wedge through the us, and she is succeeding. We're bickering like children.”

The sound of metal on metal clanking filled the tent as several of Dany’s remaining guards stepped into place behind her, clearly not trusting either the infamous kingslayer, or apparently their queen's husband, to keep their distance from her.  Jorah grasped his blade too.

Jon watched cautiously, half expecting Jaime to live down to his reputation and react.  But the Lannister merely scoffed and rolled his eyes, then held his tongue and looked to Jon for a solution. 

 _Why me?_ Jon's inner voice asked.  _Why now?_

Jon reached over and placed a hand over Dany's, a supportive and a calming gesture in one.  He shot her a warning look.   _I know he annoys you, but let's hear him out._ Reluctantly, she nodded.

“Very well, Ser Jaime," she said, slowly. "You speak of the city burning.  On what basis do you make such a claim.  I am going to choose to believe that you are not suggesting that I would set it alight."

Jaime started to say something, thought better of it, and looked down at the table.   After a moment, then seemed to come to a conclusion.   He fixed Dany with a hard stare. 

“I need to tell you something else that happened during Robert’s rebellion.  You will not like what you hear.”

Dany raised an eyebrow. “Will I believe it?” 

Jaime shrugged. “Believe what you want.”  He paused.  ”But after I tell you this, I need you to let me return to Cersei.”

Jon nearly chocked.  Davos laughed. 

“That is not happening,” Dany said imperiously. 

“It has to.  Cersei has Tyrion. Varys, too, I suppose, although she didn’t mention him," Jaime's tone suggested he also didn't care.  "But if I do not return, Tyrion dies first.”  

“And if you go back, we cannot protect you.  You will likely die with the both of them,” Jon said slowly.

Jaime shrugged resignedly. “Maybe.  I'll take that chance.”

Jon nodded slowly. No wonder her had sent Brienne back to Winterfall, despite his performance about never leaving her. 

Dany was silent. “Let us hear what you have to say first, and whether it buys your freedom.”

Jaime appeared to reluctantly accept the deal, and when he spoke he looked directly as Dany.   

“When Robert’s Rebellion started, I was guarding your father in the Red Keep.  The other kingsguard members were sent to gather support, or deal with uprisings, but I was kept close.  Your father didn’t trust me, you see, wanted me where Varys could watch me.”

“He was not entirely a fool then,” the dragon queen sniped.  Jaime ignored her. 

“I did my duty.  I stood guard and watched your father.  I stood there and guarded him as he commanded his alchemists to place caches of wildfire all over Kings Landing.  Beneath the homes and the hovels, stables and storehouses, and beneath the Red Keep. Yes, beneath the Sept of Baelor, too.  Cersei or Qyburn or someone clearly found those ones.

”He wanted to _burn them all._ Surely you know this? When I thought he was going to actually do it, actually start the conflagration, I killed your father’s pyromancer, and then your father. You know that too. Then I hunted down every other fucking pyromancer and killed them too. But I couldn't get rid of the wildfire. Barrels of it, everywhere. I couldn't move it, I couldn't burn it, and I sure as fuck couldn't tell anyone about it.  I secured it, as best I could. But it's still there, all of it - or at least, that which wasn't blown up with the Sept or used by Tyrion for the Battle of the Blackwater."

He paused, drew a breath, and this time he looked to Jon.  "I think Cersei found more of it.

Jon felt his blood run cold. “All of it?”

"I don't know.  But she's found what was in the Red Keep, at least."

Beside him, Davos shuddered. “Why didn’t you tell us about the wildfire earlier?” he asked

“Why?  Because I took another vow to keep the king’s secrets, and I didn’t want to break that too?"  He suggested.

The looks around the table were incredulous, and Jaime must have noticed.  His face grew grim.  

"Of course you don’t believe me.  Very well. Let me offer some other reasons.  I've kept this secret for forty years, because I trusted no one with it.  I don't know any of you. Why would I have revealed the existence of wildfire crates to any of you? I don’t trust you any more than you trust me. And you...” his eyes fell on Daenerys, "remind me too much of your father.   And because, four weeks ago, you were going to lay siege to this city, and wait it out. Then a few days ago I found you incinerated one of my oldest friends.  And now, apparently, you are going to use dragon fire on the Keep.  The Keep my sister just told me she intended to make glow green.  In those circumstances, the situation required a … reappraisal.”

“What are you saying?” Jorah asked quietly.  "That Cersei is on a suicide mission?"

Jaime ground his teeth.  “Not exactly. More a precaution, with potential for revenge. I believe Cersei packed the Keep with it as a deterrent.  She wanted me to make it clear to you that if you attack it with dragonfire, it will start a conflagration that will kill every man, woman and child there.”

“Including Cersei,” Dany said, blandly.  Her voice was flat and Jon glanced up at her uncertainly. 

 _Does she think that a price worth paying_ , Jon wondered.   _Surely not._

But Jaime was unfazed. “Yes, including Cersei.  Perhaps she has an escape plan, but I doubt it. She is not afraid to die.  She would have poisoned our children rather than allow them to fall into Stanis’ hands.  And she has lost the other ch...” Jaime’s voice cracked, but he couldn't finish that thought.  “She has nothing to lose.  She'll sacrifice herself before she lets go of that throne.”

Jon flexed his fingers and contemplated the situation.  "It is even worst than that, isn't it?"  He asked, quietly. "If that keep burns hot enough, it could set the rest of the wildfire alight, could it not?”

Jaime raises his hand in a hopeless gesture. "Maybe.  I don't know."

“Well, fuck,” said Davos. No doubt everyone in the room agreed.

Dany scowled angrily.  “So we cannot use the dragons. How convenient for Cersei."

The allegation against Jaime hung in the air, obvious yet unspoken. _You are telling us only to save your sister._ He did not answer it.  He was daring them not to believe him, to take the risk he was lying.

Time stretched, as the council stood silently, each member weighing the risks. 

Finally, Dany broke the tension.  "Get out, kingslayer. We'll discuss this without you.” 

She looked up at her guards. “Find someplace secure to keep him.”

Three burly dothraki advanced on Jaime, two more remaining near their queen.  The knight stepped back, shaking his head. “No,  I can’t stay here. I have told you what I know.  I must return to Cersei.  If I do not, she will kill our brother.  Your hand.  Your _friend_.” 

"Tyrion is my hand, but not my friend.  And he would understand. We can’t let you go back to Cersei.” Dany was resolute.

Jaime looked desperate, eyes wide. “But your grace - “ 

Dany remained steady, impassive. “You are the commander of Cersei’s forces, Ser Jaime.  You are her greatest military asset. I do not necessarily doubt your intentions, but I do not need to distrust you, only your sister. Whatever purpose you _think_ you are going back for, your return can only aid her.  I cannot risk it.” 

She turned to the handful of guards in the room. “Secure him.”

Jaime took a step back, his hand going to his blade.  _Widows Wail_ , Valyrian steel.  One against five and left handed, the kingslayer couldn’t win, but he could kill several men. For a long, terrifyingly tense moment, Jon worried that his command tent would run red with blood.   _A fight, between my associates, on the eve of battle!_ It was so fucked as to be beyond belief.  

But in the end, Jaime didn’t fight. He fixed Jon with a hard, desperate look, and resignedly went with the guards. Those remaining in the tent watched the small party leave mutely. 

When they were gone Davos released a long breath. “Well, fuck.  We’re fucked.”

Jorah clearly agreed. “I believe him about the wildfire, Khaleesi.”

"So do I,"  she ground out.  She was obviously furious.  “No doubt he is right. It helps Cersei either way.  It explains why she invited the smallfolk into the keep.  And now we know of the risk to them, we can’t just burn it.”

 Jon started.   _Now that we know._ _What a strange thing to say._ But he didn’t want to dwell on it. “We are going to have to reassess.  Change the plan.” 

“Can we just besiege it instead?”  asked Davos.

Jon felt his stomach sink. They would need to get the entire army through the streets, take the city and then surround the keep.  It would take weeks and cost thousands of lives.  “It will be a bloody affair, but it is possible we have no other choice.  We can’t risk setting the entire city alight.”

Dany nodded, reluctantly.  Her hands were clenched into angry fists, her face grim.

Jon could not shake his fear that his queen,  _his wife,_ would rather not have known about the risk, so that she could have burned the keep with impunity. 

 

**SANSA**

**The Lady of Winterfell’s Chambers**

Sansa pulled the thread through the fabric, meticulously embroidering the scruffy mane of a silver direwolf into the grey and blue fabric lying across her lap.  The work was painstaking, and her fingers ached, but she found it a comforting way to pass a cold night. _Let Arya have her needle, and me mine_ , she thought with a sad smile. But she dared not think too long of Arya, lest the fear set in, again. 

Too late, those dreaded thoughts were upon her.  Bran had told her they had arrived in Kings Landing, and Sansa could picture Arya, Jon and most of her men, huddled in tents around Kings Landing, and Tyrion, trapped in some cell beneath it.  She shuddered.  

Brienne looked up from where she was pacing by the window.  Sansa had long years of practice at looking calm no matter how fierce her internal storm, but Brienne did not, and concern was obvious in every line of her face.  Concern for her, of course, but also for Ser Jaime, Sandor, even Tyrion, and many of the men she had fought with.  She paced up and down the room, her large, calloused hand clenching and unclenching over the blade at her waist. _The Lannister blade, all gold and rubies and exhibitionism._  Sansa still didn’t know the full story behind the blade, but clearly her sworn knight and the kingslayer had a long history. A history that may explain the usually sensible woman’s appallingly bad taste in men

“Do sit down, Brienne.” Her circular path was beginning to make Sansa dizzy. 

The large woman stopped pacing immediately and looked mortified. 

“I apologise my lady, I do not mean to disturb your concentration.”

“You’re not disturbing me, but you are wearing a hole in my carpet.”

Brienne blushed, and looked down at her feet.  The carpet was fine. Sansa smiled softly to herself, Brienne did have a tendency to miss the odd joke.  She shuffled awkwardly, one hand still resting on that hilt.

Sansa appraised her friend in the dull candlelight.  Even in half darkness, Brienne looked dreadful. Her eyes were red-tinged, with black circles under them, and a muscle in her jaw twitched constantly.  Her teeth would be worn to stubbs if she kept that up.

 _It is a cruelty to keep her here._ Sansa had realised that much too late.  Too late for Brienne follow Jon and Jaime south.  Too late to allow her to be part of the last war, to chase the glory she still hungered for.   _Too late to let her go off and die like some character in a mummer's tale, thank the gods, despite that too often being what she seems to want._

Yet as much as Sansa tried to convince herself that she had Brienne's best interest at heart, the truth was, she just wanted her here, in Winterfell, with her and whatever was left of Bran. Safe. One small part of her family that was.

_I am being selfish._

“I will release you, Brienne, if you wish to join them,” She said, reluctantly, placing her needle down for a moment.  

Brienne started, eyes opening wider in surprise, but she quickly recovered her composed demeanor. “My duty lies with you, my lady.”

“Perhaps.  But your heart and mind are clearly elsewhere.” 

Brienne reddened.  “If my service is giving you-”

“- of course not! Your service is impeccable. But you are not content.” 

Brienne closed her eyes for a moment, and Sansa thought she saw tears glistening in the corners of them. “Thank you,” the warrior said, “but even if I were to leave, it would take weeks to reach Kings Landing.  I would be there only for the aftermath, and you would be undefended. My duty is here, as is Podrick’s. I just wish it were not so...” she paused, considered, “... difficult. So difficult to wait.” 

Yes, those were definitely tears forming in Brienne's eyes.  Pretty eyes. Blue, like the linen in Sansa’s lap. Like that doublet Brienne looked good in.  Sansa recalled that when she had complimented Brienne about it, she had replied, in flustered tones, that Ser Jaime had it made for her many years ago in Kings Landing.  There was likely more to that story too.  

Brienne turned away and Sansa looked back to her embroidery to save the other woman the apparent embarrassment of her emotions.  She pushed her needle in, pulled another stitch through.  

“My mother used to say that it took a particular kind of courage to hold faith and wait, often in the dark and the cold.  A woman’s courage, she called it. To carry on, keep things going, ensure that there is a home to come back to.  And to accept that some things are out of your control.”

Brienne nodded, but her voice cracked slightly. “I don’t believe I have that courage.”

Sansa smiled sadly, and put her work aside.  She stood up, and, after a moment's hesitation, moved to wrap her arms around her friend. Brienne stood tall, rigid with uncertainty her a moment, and then, with a soft sob, she lifted her arms around Sansa too.

“You do,” Sansa whispered.  “We must.”

They held each other for a moment, and then Sansa pushed Brienne gently away, hands on her arms.

”I have something for you.” She said, gently.  Brienne looked surprised. 

”There is no need -“

”Of course there is no need, but I like embroidery.  It is not quite finished, but you need a distraction...”

With that, Sansa turned back to her chair and lifted the fabric, letting it fall to the ground.  It was a cloak, quartered in blue and pink and silver-grey, with sun and stars in three quarters and and a grey dire wolf in the fourth.

Brienne gasped. “It’s beautiful...”

Sansa smiled, proudly.  “It has turned out rather well, hadn't it?”  She walked around behind Brienne, and placed the cloak on her shoulders.

Brienne run her fingers down in in pleasure. “Thank you".

"Consider it a peace offering, of a kind.  I was hoping you would wear it when you marry your very, very unworthy knight. I will then find some consolation in the fact that, as foolish as  your choice is, at least you will look good when you commit to it.”

Brienne laughed, and Sansa joined her. 

In the darkening Godswood, below them, Podrick sighed miserably, and pulled his coat around himself, trying to keep out the cold as he morosely watched Bran continue to stare at the bloody tree. 

 

**VARYS**

**The Tunnels beneath the Red Keep**

 

Varys' hand shook as he coughed into his collar, the torch light dancing across the cave wall. 

His lungs were still burning.  They were damaged, he knew, and possibly beyond repair.   _And here I am, dying in the the bowels of the Red Keep, while following a rat._

Well, several rats actually.  They were making their was to the cave wall before him, leaving apparently, as fast as their disturbingly hand-like feet would carry them, tussling and scuttling over each other in the process.   _Just like rats_ _leaving a sinking ship._

He wondered if they could smell the wildfire, or sense their impending deaths.  _Or someone is controlling them._ Varys was fairly sure he knew who.

This madness had started with a single spider.  It had scuttling across the wall of the rookery, and then come back, and scuttled again.  As if it were talking to him.  Varys had watched it curiously, hardly believing that it could actually be beckoning him, but when he had approached it, it moved some distance and waited.  He had hidden Qyburn's body as best he could, and, hardly believing what he was doing, followed the spider.  Followed it down into the bowels of the maesters cottage, through the kitchen, and the pantry and into a storeroom. There, the little creature had been eaten by the rat, which had emerged from seemingly nowhere. Just as Varys thought that maybe he was going mad, another rat had come out of that same 'nowhere', and upon examination Varys had found a new hidden passage.  One he wasn't aware of. The rat seemed to wait for him, while he slithered down into the near darkness.  And so he found himself following it, instead.

Now he watched as the rat, and its friends, disappeared through a gap in the rocks.  He bent down to examine the space. Too small for a human to crawl through, but he could smell the fresh air on the shores of the Trident.    _The miasma must have corrupted my brain..._

A crack sounded behind him, and he froze. 

“Stand up slowly, no tricks, and you might live to take your next stinking breath.”

The voice him was hard and rough but familiar.  It took him only a moment to recognise it. _Clegane._  

Varys raised his hands and did as he was bid.  He turned slowly.  The Hound's eyes widened when he saw him.

“Spider! What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Varys gave the Hound a long, cold look.  “The opposite of you, I imagine.”  His eyes then fell on Clegane's small companion.  “Well, well, Arya Stark.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed.  “What do you want, spider.”

This was almost too convenient. He glanced down at the rats, but they had vanished.  

“Your help, actually.”

The Hound made a sound that may have been a laugh.  “Why the fuck would we help you?”

“Because I believe that is what you are meant to do.  In any case, if you want to kill a queen and a monster, you’ll need to keep this place standing long enough to do it. Follow me.”

 

**JAIME**

**Targaryan Camp - Outside Kings Landing**

 

They put him in a tent guarded by a few of the remaining Dothraki and a number of surly northmen who were likely actively looking for a chance to kill him.  

 _Right back where I started from, half a decade ago._   _In chains in the northmens’ camp, with Tyrion imprisoned and Cersei in danger and me having just done something stupid._

Only this time he wasn’t even a valuable hostage.  Cersei wouldn’t exchange anyone for him, and nor would Daenerys. Catelyn was dead and Brienne was, thankfully, hundreds of miles away.  He wondered how much time he had before Daenerys decided to roast him.  

The thought that Cersei knew about the wildfire, even the small amount left in the Keep, played tortuous games in his mind.  She had never asked why him why he killed Aerys, and he had never told her.  Despite everything he had felt for her, the obsession that had destroyed his life, some part of him had always known telling his sister about the wildfire was a terrible idea.  

 _And yet I just told the Mad King's daughter all about it instead._ He knocked his head back against the tent post.   _Fucking brilliant._

The tent flap opened, and Jaime looked up to see Jorah Mormont, of all people, enter holding a decanter of wine. He looked tired and resigned.

"Poison?  Really? _"_ Of all the people who could be sent to effect his execution, he hadn’t considered Mormont a likely candidate. 

Jorah handed him the decanter. "No poison, although it's pretty poor piss.  You are very skilled at antagonising people, Lannister." 

"One of my few consistent talents.”

The decanter was heavy and something tingled inside.   _This is interesting._

"She’ll never agree to let you go back to Cersei,"  Jorah said, slowly. “And after that little display, she’ll probably never let you go at all. But they do believe you about the wildfire. Or at least, they are reluctant to take the risk.”

“I’m not lying.”

Mormont shrugged. “It’s not for me to say.  If it's a trick, it's a good one. Khaleesi will be hesitant before allowing Drogon to rage tomorrow.”

“ _Hesitant?”_

“She will not use fire immediately.  But I cannot say she will not use it at all.”  Jorah looked, and sounded, confused and uncertain, enveloped in a sense of exhaustion.

Jaime closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the post. “If she uses it, the city will burn.”

Jorah nodded. "Not if you can put a stop to this madness first.”

"Me?" 

“I'm taking a risk on you, Lannister.  Not as great a one as some will think, I suppose.  I don't credit your skill as highly as my Khaleesi does, which is to your benefit.  Even if you are lying, and even if you are planning on returning to help Cersei, one maimed man with a history of famous looses is not likely to make a difference to the cause.  But if your motives are true, you may be the only person who can stop this carnage."

He tapped the decanter.  "Key is in there.  Use it sometime after I am gone." 

Jaime stared at Mormont in shock.  “You’re letting me go to her? You're betraying Daenerys? You? _Why?”_

“Because if what you say is true, and she attacks that keep, she will never forgive herself.” 

Jorah stood. He looked to be in physical pain. “I betrayed her once, so I could go home.  I swore I would never betray her again. But here I am. This time, I am betraying her because I love her.  I cannot let her do this."

Jaime rubbed his leg, trying to get the feeling back.  “And Snow? Where does he stand?”

“Jon loves her with everything he has.  He is blinded by it. I think we both know what that means.”

Jaime nodded. _If anyone does, it is us_.  The men paused and exchanged a look of understanding. 

“Leave out the back, after the guard checks on you.  I know you have some way in.  See what you can do. And if you can’t put a stop to this madness, at least try to save Tyrion.  If she wins, she’ll need him.”

 

**JON/AEGON**

**Targaryan Camp -Outside Kings Landing**

 

As morning dawned, Jon watched Dany climb onto Drogon’s back with a deep sense of unease, even desperation.  Every fiber of his being was again telling him not to let his pregnant wife leap into the front lines of a wretched battle, but every inch of common sense was reminding him that she was going to do whatever she pleased, anyway, and that trying to stop her was only going to make her angry and increase her chances of doing something reckless and getting herself killed. 

He clenched the fingers on his sword hand as she settled herself onto Drogon’s back.  She looked down at him, and gave him a tentative smile. Slowly, he lifted his hand in a silent wave.  He was not saying goodbye. It was _not_ goodbye. The huge black dragon turned its eyes on him as well - they seemed to glow red for a moment, although whether in challenge, glee or respect, Jon had absolutely no idea. Muscles bunching, the dragon leaped into the still dark sky, Dany defiantly clutching his back.

His final, silent request to her to stay had failed.  Now all he could do was pray to his distant gods, and hers, and hope everything went to plan. 

Jon sighed deeply, and threw a quick glance at Rhaegel.  This dragon, too, was eyeing him. He didn’t speak its language, not as such.  he didn't even know if the dragon had a language.  But he was convinced Rhaegel  understood him.  _Who is the beast and who is the man?_ He wondered.

He turned back to camp to find Davos and Jorah watching him carefully. Davos had an eyebrow raised, but Jorah’s gaze was more sympathetic.

“She insisted on going, didn’t she?” Jorah asked. 

“Aye.  Won’t listen to reason.” 

He sighed, then look up at Davos.  “We’re taking a big risk, with my sister's life no less.  Let’s just hope this works, or she’ll probably burn us all for treason.”

Jorah frowned a little at that, but no one disagreed.

Jon looked to the Rhaegel, then back to Davos and Mormont. 

“I need to say thank you.  To both of you,” he said. “You have been true friends.” 

Jorah looked uncomfortable.   _He does this only for Dany_ , Jon knew.  But Davos looked away, touched and embarrassed. “Aye.  Well, if I fall, I’ll be fighting the good fight, with the bravest o’ men.  Just hope that if I am killed, it won’t be in bloody flea bottom. Promised dad I wouldn't die there.  Gonna make sure I get to the good side of town.”

Jon chuckled. “Remember, the goal is the keep, not the city.  We have to get across and into the Keep. Keep the men inline and on task, and it should be fine.”

They said their goodbyes quickly.  

Jon turned back and strode toward Rhaegel.  As he did, he tried to remember why he even cared who was king. _Cersei is a bad queen.  I promised Dany I would help her take back what is hers._ But really he didn’t care who sat on the bloody throne.  He wasn't even convinced that he cared whether it was Cersei, not really. Given a choice, he’d just head back north, and stay there and raise their child and forget all about these southroners and their messes.

_But Dany would never agree to that.  Never._

He had bent the knee and promised her that they would recover what was hers. He had married her and sworn to love and protect her.

Jon gave his reptilian companion a long pat down the nose. The war council had identified three targets - the Iron Fleet, the scorpions and the gates.  Dany had insisted on the fleet, convinced that he had something to do with the deaths of the unsullied.  Jon hadn’t argued. At least it was one target he was satisfied did not have wildfire.  He would deal with the gates. And the bloody scorpions.

Jon run his hand through his hair, and gazed over at the orange glow on the eastern horizon. 

 _And so it begins_. 


	8. Episode 805 - The Bells - Part 3 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Kings Landing...

**DAVOS**

**Outside Kings Landing**

Davos shuffled nervously in his position in the mid-lines of the northern army ( _or was it the Targaryan army?_  He was increasingly confused).He hated this part of the battle.  The waiting, anticipation, nervousness and fear.   His guts squirmed, and if he had anything left in them he’d be emptying it out one end of the other about now.

_How the fuck did I get here anyway?  In an army? Invading my own birthplace?_

The Onion Knight had been born to a poor crabber in a dingy shack in the darkest hole in Flea Bottom.  He had been read no fairy tales as a child, had no formal training in combat, and shared none of the romantic illusions about war that his fellow knights did.  War was, at best, a necessity, although he could think of a few occasions where it was truly needed, other than the Long Night. Most trouble could be better resolved by a good chat and some subtle threats.  He had no love for Cersei Lannister, or Lannisters in general, but even so this battle remained in the “unnecessary” category. 

Still, he had sworn his sword to Jon, and Jon had bent the knee to Daenerys, and so here he was, standing outside the walls of Kings Landing, resigned to the reality that, whatever happened today, thousands of people were going to die, or be left homeless, and he would be part of the cause of that. 

He stared across the battlefield to the lines of the Golden Company.  Thousands of men lined up in perfect order. And gold they were. Mercenaries, dressed in fine armour and carrying good quality steel swords and spears and solid oak shields.  They had doubtless seen hundreds of battles, their plunder evident in their garb and on the gold bands on their arms.

The men surrounding him were shabbier. These were not the untrained green boys of the Battle of Winterfell, but hardened northern soldiers, well use to battle and killing.  Even so, none had fought in conditions like this, nor foes so well equipped and trained. The gates of Kings Landing were huge, seemingly impenetrable, and lined with massive ballistas and hundreds, if not thousands, of bowmen.  The towers of the Red Keep loomed in the distance. The population of this one city was equal to the north.  

Davos narrowed his eyes and tried to focus on the enemy.  There appeared to be some movement among the ranks of the Golden Company.  Officers talking to each other, men shuffling, runners making their way down the lines, and then barked commands in a strange language. 

Maybe he was getting shortsighted in his old age, but it looked as if the Golden Company was retreating.  

_Mormont you magnificent bastard!_

Jorah had done it. The mercenaries were leaving, filing away in sleek, ordered lines.  Davos was beginning to think he might actually survive the day.

 

**CERSEI**

**The Queen’s Solar - The Red Keep**

 

“The Golden Company has changed sides, Cersei,” Tyrion said quietly as they watched the line of men begin to shuffle away from the walls.  “You cannot win.”

She glanced down at him, her loathsome imp brother.  He stood to her left, his gnarled hands resting casually on the balcony.  She’d brought him up from his cell to witness her victory, the _Lannister victory,_ the triumph of Tywin’s true daughter.  

Granted, she’d also told Jaime that if he didn’t return she’d execute him.  Well, the battle had begun and Jaime wasn’t here and she really should follow through with that threat, but for all his faults, Tyrion was better company than the Mountain.  And Qyburn too, wherever he was this morning.  She took another sip of wine.

_Why is everyone such a disappointment to me? Is loneliness truly the price of grandeur?_

Cersei stared at her fingers where they gripped marble.  Her knuckles were white. Tyrion’s were pink _. He is too_ _calm._ His face was expressionless, but she just knew he was gloating inside.  

 _He is enjoying this_ , she thought sullenly. _Enjoying what he thinks will be my defeat!_

_Well, just wait and see._

She swirled her wine casually.  “Our men will fight harder than sellswords ever could. They will defend their queen to the last man.”  _And if they don’t, when this is over, I will see to it that their families are used to fuel their funeral pyres._

Tyrion looked up at her. _A long way up._ “There is still time to surrender, Cersei.  Cut a deal.”

She laughed.  “This again?”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at her.  The little imp had always been the cleverer brother, and much less biddable than Jaime. She was surprised he couldn’t see the bigger picture.  

“What?” he asked, clearly reading something in her expression.

"Oh Tyrion, your wits must have been in that cock that the dragon queen removed from you,"  she said, viciously. "I am winning, you idiot."

"Winning?  With what? Are you delusional? You have just lost the Golden Company! They are walking away.  Who is going to defend this city? Who is going to defend this Keep when those walls fall?"

"Not just who, what.  Smallfolk. Lots of them."  She knew she couldn’t contain the mirth in her voice.  "Your Aegon Targaryan and your Dragon Queen won't attack this keep with innocent children packed inside."

Tyrion stared at her aghast.

“That's your plan?  Daenerys Stormborn’s soft heart?”  Now she could hear the sardonic mirth in _his_ voice, and felt a little sliver of nervousness. “You've met her, Cersei.  You know what she did on the Goldroad, what she did to Tarly! Does she seem to you like the soft hearted type?”

“No.  She seems rather like her father. Reckless. Ruthless.  I am counting on it.”

Tyrion blinked.  She saw, with no small measure of glee, a shadow of fear pass over his face. 

A roar broke the tension, and Cersei turned in the direction of the sound.  _The Iron Fleet,_  she thought.  Likely destroyed by dragon fire.   _Oh well._ She was building more ships at Lannisport.  She pictured Euron, burning. It was oddly pleasing. 

"What are you doing, Cersei?“ Tyrion demanded.

There was another roar, something animalistic and then a rumble that sounded like thunder.  Then the world exploded, the Keep shuddering as sound and pressure rolled over them from the east.  Tyrion ran to the balcony and stared out. He could likely see nothing, but could surely smell fire, and the screams of men and horses. 

“That was the Dragon Gate.” Cersei said drolly.  

 _“_ Near where the Golden Company was camped,” Tyrion realised.  

“Try explaining that to the traitorous cunts,”  Cersei smirked. “The honourable northern army just slaughtered their retreating soldiers!” 

Tyrion turned and stared at her in disbelief. "You've laced the city walls with wildfire?"

"Not just the walls.  The entire city.  There’s wildfire everywhere. Every time your beloved queen uses that dragon, she will incinerate another block.  And if she doesn’t, Qyburn will ensure we set a couple off anyway."

Cersei looked down at her brother in triumph, but the look he gave her was not of awe, but of absolute horror. _And I had so hoped he would understand._

“You knew we'd attack with the dragon?  Despite the warning you sent Jaime."

“Of course, Tyrion.  I knew everything you were going to do, Jaime just ensured she didn’t attack the Keep first.  I don’t care about the walls. Your men are going to flood in, and they are going to destroy this city, and everyone in Westeros will know she’s her father's daughter.  Mad. Do you think the people of the realm are going to suffer your dragon queen usurper when they hear about this?”

"This is insane, Cersei, you'll be the queen of ashes.”

“So what?  We can always rebuild.”

 

**DAVOS**

**Outside Kings Landing**

The retreating Golden Company soldiers left a cloud of dust in their wake, and the wind blew it straight toward the Targaryan lines. Davos blinked the grit from his eyes and raised his hand to his forehead to block the sun.  He wondered, again, what he was doing here. 

A sound like thunder rumbled in the distance, and Davos looked up at the sky in anticipation. In the front lines, some of the Dothraki horses skittered nervously.  

 _No, not thunder._   _Fire._

There was another rumble of sound, much louder than the first, coming from further along the wall. A cloud of dust and smoke bellowed into the sky in the east, followed by a wave of screams, and the undeniable sound of men dying.  

_Definitely fire._

The men around him froze, clutching weapons, trembling.  Several horses bucked, shied and pig rooted, even their skilled dothraki riders unable to tame their fear.  Further away, Golden Company riders had the same problem.  

A roar split the air, the terrible, stomach-churning sound of an enraged dragon.  Davos watched in awe as Rhaegel swooped along the wall, a blackish shadow of anger. The dragon spewed fire along the battlements leading to the gate, incinerating the scorpions.  The wooden walkways erupted in a ball of flame.  It was almost beautiful to watch, a writhing cascade of orange and red, swirling and raging. But then the orange began to glow a sickly yellow, then green. The green grew from the walls, like spreading mould, faster and stronger, consuming the red and orange.  The fire seemed to reach out to him with dangerous tendrils. 

The Gate of the Gods exploded.  

The world around Davos dissolved into heat and pain and green, searing wildfire. 

 

**JON**

**Above Kings Landing**

 

Jon felt the heat of the explosion behind him, the rush of air being pulled into the inferno, and then a discordant blast pushing the dragon forward. Rhaegel struggled to stay level, battering his wings desperately to get back in control. 

A scorpion bolt flew past them, but wildly off target.  Whether aimed or loosed in panic, Jon couldn’t hazard a guess. He tried to urge Rhaegal up, just as another scorpion bolt twanged around him.  A third bit through the soft membrane near the wing-joint, and the dragon roared in pain, and titled sidewards. All Jon could do was try to hang on.   

Enraged, Rheagel plunged, breathed another jet of fire, and a half dozen scorpions along one of the walls exploded into flame.  The fire flickered, orange then red.  Then the wall went too, and Jon got a clear view of it this time, red flame blending into green. He closed his eyes against the flash, the heat, and the burn of the wind as Rhaegel escaped upwards. The wall and gate exploded.

Seconds later, he chanced a look down.  The entire northern side of the wall was gone, a blacked pit of smouldering rubble.  Mounted men and men on foot were scattering like ants beneath him, some toward the gaping hole and others away from it.

What the hell had just happened? 

The realisation came a moment later.  _Wildfire!  In the walls and gate too!_

Cersei didn’t just trap the Keep, but the city. 

Beneath him, men screamed and burned in a cloud of green. 

 _Abort the attack,_  his mind was screaming. _The price is too high._

But as he looked over the city, with its crumbled walls, and at the soldiers running into the streets, he knew it was too late. He could no more stop this battle than hold back the Trident.

_But there can be no more dragon fire. Just claws and teeth._

He needed to tell Dany.

Where in the seven hells was Dany?

  

**DAVOS**

**Outside Kings Landing**

 

Davos’ head was filled with a crazed swarm of bees, and his bowels revolted at the smell of burning flesh.  He was flat on his stomach, nose in the dirt. His face was hot - no doubt he’d been burnt - and his mouth was as dry as the Dornish desert.   His right hand was a ball of searing agony, and when he looked at it he instantly regretted it. It was black and blistered. A new wave of pain and nausea hit.  That was the hand he’d been using to shield his eyes from the sun.

Painfully, Davos pushed himself up to kneeling position, spitting out dirt and ash.  Men lay about him, mouths open in silent moans, some so badly burnt he could not tell northman from dothraki.  Others were struggling into awareness, standing, sitting, staggering. The explosion had been so hot that some closer to the wall were struggling to remove burnt and bent armour.

The ground was shaking beneath him. He looked up to see the mounted dothraki charging.  Hundreds of them. He followed their path with his eyes. The walls were gone, and with them most of the ballistas. The dothraki were charging into the city.  

The soldiers behind him, uninjured, screamed their anger and rushed forward too.  He stayed kneeling as they ran past him, whooping, cheering, blades dancing. 

And following behind them, from the east, the Golden Company soldiers.  Enraged, some burnt, and most probably feeling they’d been betrayed, they were no longer retreating but surging forever, longing for revenge. 

Davos he struggled to his feet and followed them. 

“To the keep!” he cried to the men around him, but he doubted anyone was listening. 

 

**YARA**

**Blackwater Bay**

 

Euron’s large and ugly ship was a surprisingly clumsy beast against the lithe beauty of hers.  It was also currently lop-sided and lame, the top of her mast burning orange, a result of the dragon’s flames.

Yara waited until the two ships’ sides ground and grated against each other before leaping to grab the _Silence’s_ gunwhale, and hauling herself up and over it, alongside a dozen on her men.

The deck of the Silence was a bloody mess.  The smoke was dense, its crew in chaos. Men lay injured and burnt, while others threw buckets of water on glowing flames.  She looked around quickly, eyes watering in the smoke. For a brief moment, a handful of Euron’s men stared at her and her’s in shock. Then her nuncle’s powerful voice bellowed from somewhere near the quarterdeck.

“Fuckin’ bitch cunt!”

 _Ah, Euron himself._ There he was, emerging from the gloom, all swagger and black leather, just begging to be killed.  

“Hello,  Nuncle,” Yara called, throwing him a jaunty waive. 

Euron grinned at her through soot-black teeth.

“Dear niece,” he drawled.

Her uncle brandished a broad blade, Yara her axe.  They leapt at each other. Steel crunched on steel as they thrust and swung and parried.  Euron was stronger than her, faster too, but he was injured, with one eye swollen shut and his face marred in burns.  Now was her best chance. She ducked and weaved and sought to tire him, as her iron islanders and his clashed around them.

“You’re weak nuncle, weak and cruel and stupid.  And I will be the death of you.”

Euron just laughed. “I have already conquered death, you stupid bitch.  I cannot die!”

He threw out his leg to trip her, but she jumped, gracefully throwing herself around the mast, kicking at him with a metal-tipped boot.  Euron dodged and slashed at the rope with his blade, severing rigging, and causing the already burning sail to fall. The tail end of his blow sliced through leather and into her leg, behind the knee.

Yara threw herself from the mast, only just avoiding the flames.  Sparks flew wildly. The deck would soon start burning. 

She landed badly, her injured leg clumsy, her foot sliding over something slick.  _Blood_. It was pouring from the stump of someone’s leg, she couldn’t tell who.  Whoever he was he was likely already dead, _bled out,_  his screams lost to the sound of the sea and the fire.  

She was on her arse on the deck.  Her hands tried to find purchase on the wooden planks, but everything was slick.  Her legs slid beneath her again and again, almost comical in their uselessness. _Fuck._

Euron stalked over toward her, his blade high. “If I had the time, I’d rape you first and then I’d kill you.”

“And I’d cut off your cock and shove it down your neck…” she swore, still struggling to pull herself away, to get back to her feet.  

She grabbed a railing, but it broke beneath her hands.  

Euron laughed maniacally. “Actually, why risk it? I’ll kill you then rape your corpse…”

He continued to advance on her, a swaggery walk, hips forward, leering. Yara’s stomach turned in disgust.  She tried, again, to get her leg underneath her, but it could not take her weight. She pulled herself back across the deck instead, Euron leering as she fought for every inch. 

Another of her men appeared out of the gloom, axe swinging. _Too wide,_  she wanted to scream, but it was too late too.  Euron disemboweled him in a single blow, throwing the body back into a second man with a riotous laugh. 

_Ironborn killing Ironborn in the name of two southron queens. What in the Seven Hells have we become?  See what you have made us, nuncle?_

He was nearly on top of her now, boots filling her vision.  Yara was without her axe, but was still holding the broken piece of railing. It was sharp and jagged. She used every inch of her remaining strength to slam it into Euron’s foot.  She felt wood and bone both break. Euron gave a scream of pain, rearing back, and she launched herself forward, slammed her head into his groin. He bent over double, allowing her to pull him off balance, toward her.  His grip on his blade weakened momentarily. She grabbed at its hilt, caught his wrist instead, and he overbalanced further when she pulled him toward her, his feet sliding in the blood. 

It was all Yara needed.  She rolled out from beneath her tumbling uncle, kicking out at his leg as she struggled to her feet. Her injured leg was numb, yet she didn’t fall. Somehow, there was a ruined piece of decking in her hands. 

Euron recovered, turning to face her, but he was too slow, too predictable, and she swung the smouldering timber in her hands at his head. It connected, weakly, but enough to make him stumble.  He took a step backwards, and tripped over the disembodied leg, losing his grip on his sword.

Laughing, coughing blood herself, Yara grabbed her uncle’s dropped sword, and plunged it into his neck.  He made a satisfyingly strangled sound, and died.

 

**DAVOS**

**Kings Landing**

  
Davos slammed the wooden mace into the Lannister soldier's forehead.  The man's eyes clouded, and then rolled back. He fell to the ground and his helmet rolled off, twisting and turning over the muddy ground.  His revealed face was that of a boy, maybe sixteen or eighteen. One side of his head was flattened and bloodied.  

Everywhere the ground was littered with bodies, blood, viscera, discarded weapons and scattered food and refuse.

This was nothing like the other battles Davos had had the misfortune to experience.  It was down and dirty and desperate, fighting through the alleys and the streets, in narrow and crowded spaces.  The Lannister soldiers, boosted by former highgarden men and the gold cloaks, attempted to maintain their lines, but were harried on all sides by the wild northmen and dothraki.  Many had broken and run.  Others, however, fought, aided by angry Golden Company mercenaries  Some were helping desperate smallfolk.

Davos dodged back under the eaves of a Kings Landing house.  Arrows were raining from walls, houses, and towers, falling indiscriminately now, the arches assuming that the well-armoured Lannisters would better protected than the bare-headed dothraki.  Often, they were right, although many of theirs fell too.

As if to prove his point, a horse, riderless and panicked, an arrow in its shoulder and hindquarters, raced past him.

Davos had no idea what he was even trying to do anymore, often than perhaps get to the Red Keep.  The army was in chaos. Most of his men were missing. The dragon was, for some reason, circling overhead. _What the fuck was Dany doing?_

He felt something grip his leg, and looked down to see a hand covered in red and dark metal.  Blood, yes, but also armour. A lannister soldier had caught his ankle.  

"Water..." the man wailed. He had been caught in one of the explosions.    

Davos stared blankly at the man for a moment.  There was something embedded in his stomach.  A splinter from the wall, he realised.  

“Water...mercy,” the man cried again. “Mother!  Mamma...!”

_Another who is barely more than a lad.  I can’t leave him._

Davos swore, and fumbled for his waterskin, holding it out.  The enemy soldier grasped it in bloodied hands and drank, his eyes closed in bliss.  Davos used the opportunity to run a sword through his ribs, hoping to piece the heart. It worked.  The lad went rigid, thrashed, and passed. _A kinder way to die than having your guts fall out_ , he told himself. Water from his waterskin mingled with the blood on the road.

To his left, Davos heard a woman’s scream.  Across the road, a man dressed in northern armour was pulling a girl by the arm toward a wall.  Davos yelled at him to put her down, but the soldier looked up and leered in response.  Davos swore again, drew his word, and gathered his wits and courage to make the sprint across the roadway to the opposite alley, through the rain of arrows.  He didn’t need to, as the northerner’s mouth suddenly fell open, and he vomited blood. The man fell, and behind him was Jorah Mormont, sword bloodied. The woman, pale and in shock, stared at her saviour, screamed more, and bolted. 

There was another explosion, some distance away, and another building exploded in green flames.  

“It’s not Dany,” Jorah screamed at him. “Someone else is setting off the wildfire!”

Then the rubble started falling.  They both fell to the ground, and Davos covered his head and prayed.  The ground shook as walls toppled. Near him, a body fell with a dull thud.

 _This is madness_.

Blinking, Davos stared upwards as smoke rose, twisting and twirling into writhing patterns. Among the dark shapes, Davos could have sworn that he saw the Stranger.  

 

**JON**

**Above Kings Landing**

 

_So much screaming._

His men, Dany’s men, the Lannister men, the white cloaks, the mercenaries, the smallfolk, dogs and horses and even the wind and the flames.  All screaming.

The city was crying. Burning and dying.  Fire and blood. He gazed down into the battlefield that was Kings Landing, and realised, vaguely, pointlessly, that he had never seen so many people, let alone heard them raise their voices in one such terrible song.  

Below him, fire from the walls had set alight the roofs of several houses, and smallfolk, terrified and blackened, were pouring onto the streets, not far from where northerners and goldcloaks clashed.

Another explosion, some distance away, ripped through the west of the city. More green fire and horrible screams.  Jon looked around frantically, searching for the cause, terrified that he would see Drogon setting things alight.  But the other dragon was nowhere to be seen, until Jon looked up and found him.

He is too  _high._ _Too high to have breathed that fire._

_Thank fuck._

Whatever was setting off the fire wasn’t Dany. Guilt mingled with the relief.   _How could I have thought that it was?_  

But that was a question for another time. 

Indecision gripped Jon.  He pondered going to Dany, but the cries of the smallfolk drowned out all else.  Below him, flames were converging on a square. People were trapped in it, a dozen or so, women and children among them. 

 _Likely only a few of the many in danger right now,_ he told himself.   _You cannot save them all._

But these ones were right beneath him. 

He dove the dragon down, back into the city. Much smaller than his brother dragon, Rhaegel managed to maneuver his way down into the doomed courtyard as the flames licked at his wings.

He landed, and the small folk rushed away from him, crowding against walls, women standing before children, husbands shielding their wives.  _They think themselves trapped between the dragon and flames,_ Jon realised.  He could hardly blame them, but he was all they had, and he had no time for their fears.  

“Mothers with children, here, quickly,” he commanded.  

No one moved. 

He tried again. “I will save you.  Come, now, or you will burn.”

Large, black, horrified eyes stared back at him, but there were no takers.

None, that was, except a small boy.  Soot covered and in rags, eyes watering and nose running green. He stood alone on the edge of the square but he hadn’t retreated.  He stared at the dragon in awe. 

Jon moved to him and bent down, bringing himself eye level with the small boy.  “Do you want to ride a dragon?” he asked. 

The boy’s eyes went from wide and terrified to wide and excited. Jon held out his hand, and the boy took it.  He started to lead him toward Rhaegel. Behind him, mere feet from some of the other huddling forms, a chunk of building fell.  Time was nearly up. Jon stepped faster, and dragged the boy.

A plaintiff wail rose from the crowd, and a woman with a babe in arms ran forward after them.  Short, plainly clothed and filthy.

“My son, my baby, please don’t hurt-”

“Are you the mother?” Jon cut her off, angrily.  She nodded, mutely. 

“Get on the fucking dragon,” he yelled at her. “On, now, up, if you don’t want to burn. Go!”

The woman stared, shell-shocked, and then turned toward the monster.  She had likely only heard of such creatures in mummer’s tales and bedtime stories, and in most of those they were hardly good. But her child was at stake.  

“Now!” Jon screamed at her.

The woman steeled herself, grabbed her son’s hand, and mounted Rhaegel’s leg.  

The others stood, for a moment, and then the flood began.  A dozen trapped smallfolk raced to the dragon. 

Jon groaned in relief.  _I cannot save everyone, but I can save some._

 

**DAENERYS**

**Above Kings Landing**

 

Daenerys Targaryen circled Drogon above the city.  

The walls were down, crumbled piles of stone and waste, smouldering beneath a blanket of char.  Flames sputtered across roofs of nearby houses and shops.  Ash filled the air.

Dany stared in horror at the inferno beneath her.  Red and green. Fire and death.

Another building exploded. 

 _It wasn’t Drogon,_ she thought desperately.  _It wasn’t me._

Below her, smallfolk ran from her dragon and from Jon’s, and from the soldiers and the flames and chaos too.  Mounted dothraki charged the streets, followed by black clad northman, crossing swords with the crimson Lannister men and desperate and overwhelmed goldcloaks.  They were advancing on the Keep, but leaving destruction in their wake.

In the distance, the Iron Fleet burned on Blackwater Bay.  

Dany circled and circled, at a loss as to what to do.  Finally, she landed Drogon on the roof of what she supposed was once a grand family home.   Beams cracked and tiles slipped and fell beneath his feet, but she could not have cared less about the building.

Beneath her, the Lannister soldiers who had been guarding the road toward the Keep froze in terror.  She fixed their leader with a cold, hard glare, and he lowered his weapons. The others did likewise. She supposed there was some possibility her men would accept their surrender, although a part of her knew they likely wouldn’t.  She cared barely more for them than she did for the building. 

Above the din of the battle, she could hear the screams of the scared, the injured and the dying. _Wildfire,_ she knew.  Wildfire in the walls, the houses.  Not just the Keep.  

_The soldiers made their choice.  They supported the queen who did this.  Who seeded wildfire in her own city. Now they fall to a queen who will stop it._

But who would believe that?  She was the foreign usurper on a deadly, magical beast.  These people feared her, fled her. And now they believed her a murderer. She had been tricked. Tricked by the Lannisters, by the psychotic queen. 

She looked up at the Red Keep, perched on a bluff on the far side of King’s Landing. 

_Cersei._

Cersei was in there.  Safe in her solar, watching. Probably gloating.

_Not for long.  Not anymore._

The Keep had sheltered too many tyrants.  It would do so no longer.

It would stand against her no longer.

Dany spurred her dragon onwards.  Beneath her, the smallfolk, the soldiers, merchants and scribes, rich and poor alike, ran in terror from the monster in the sky.

_The real monster is in the Keep._

 

**TYRION**

**The Red Keep**

Tyrion had once considered himself a compassionate person.  Long the subject of ridicule and mockery, his tendency was to sympathise with those in pain. But war and betrayal, politics and humiliation had hardened him. 

_And so I am now callous to many of the things that would once have scared or moved me._

_The sound of an army on the march._

_The heat of wildfire on water._

_The sight of a dragon in full fury._

_The screams of motherless children._

_The smell of burning people._

The list was endless. 

And so, as he watched the city burn beneath the gaze of his crazy sister, Tyrion felt nothing more than a cold, numb detachment.

 _My sister.  My lovely sister.  The Mad Queen_. 

_Worse than Aerys for actually being competent enough to succeed at everything he failed at._

Cersei stood beside him on the balcony, graceful and stalwart and seemingly as calm as a windless sea.  She was grinning. _Grinning._   She raised a cup to her mouth. _She should reek of the seven hells, of fire and brimstone,_ _death and disease,_  Tyrion thought.But she didn’t. She actually smelt of rosewater and wine and the mint she chewed to keep her breath fresh.  

Together, they watched as Daenerys guided Drogon down onto the roof of a building, perhaps half the city away.  Tyrion could only just make out the distant, white figure of his queen on the dragon’s back, her eyes scanning the city and the sea of orange roofs, scattered with fire.  It was an eerie, awful and terrible sight; yet somehow wildly beautiful, Drogon landing against the green and yellow and red of the flames.  

 _Baratheon, Tyrell and Lannister_ _colours, and a dragon_ , Tyrion thought, idly.   _How fitting that the four families who destroyed this city are keenly represented in this montage of horror._

A horror it was.  How many had died in that one moment of madness, when Jon had unwittingly blown out the scorpions and the barracks?  How many had died since, as Cersei’s agents set off those barrels of wildfire. 

In the distance, Rheagel rose from an area of smokey ruins.  _Jon is rescuing people,_ Tyrion realised.  _He’s turned his dragon from a killing creature into a life giving one._ But Dany’s eyes were fixed on the Red Keep. Directly at the keep, and almost certainly at Cersei.  Surely they were too far apart to truly see each other? Yet Tyrion could feel the tangible cord between the two women.

“Your move, bitch,” Cersei whispered.  And Tyrion was certain that Dany could hear her. 

With a smouldering city and two dragons in the air, how could Cersei possibly think to win?  Yet her confidence was obvious.  Infuriating. Brutal.

 _I hate her,_ he realised.  Hated her with a passion that boiled in his stomach, clutched at his heart, and left little room for anything else. _Is that all that remains in me?_  He wondered.  _Bile and hatred?_

He wanted to _end_ her.  He _needed_ to kill her, and stop this madness. But how?  Cersei was not foolish enough to leave knives about. He supposed he could try to wrap his hands around her long, slender neck - if he could reach - but he wouldn’t get anywhere near her before the Mountain took his own head from his neck.

_No, Dany must do this. She must come, and take this fucking travesty of a castle down with her._

Tyrion looked back over the city. Back toward his queen.  It should have been impossible, but Tyrion was certain he saw the tiny figure square her shoulders.  He definitely saw Drogon bunch his muscles and get ready to spring. 

 _Dany will attack_.  Tyrion realised, coldly, and with no small amount of satisfaction.  _She’s coming, and she will kill us, and I will get to watch Cersei burn._ It was a near joyous realisation. _Well worth dying for._

Drogon extended his wings, and launched himself into the air.  Tyrion stared, transfixed, as the creature headed directly toward the Keep, his burning red eyes seemingly focused only on them. Closer and closer he got, moving steadily as he closed the final distance.  He opened his  massive maw, revealing sharp, white teeth and a view of the hell brewing in his throat.  

Tyrion closed his eyes and waited for the warmth. 

Something hit him, hard. Not fire, a body.  A leather clad body that slammed him to the ground.  The air went out of him and the world went black in a rain of dust and debris.  The tower shuddered and shook. Bricks and tiles fell from the ceiling. Something huge tumbled outside.

Moments passed. Light returned, dimly.  Tyrion coughed, struggled to get up, and spat dust and, lovely, blood onto the ground.  

A figure beside him grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up.  “Are you hurt?”

“Jaime?”

His brother’s face was caked in dust and blood, and Tyrion imagined he looked much the same. _But never as tall._

He shook his head. “I’m… hurt but I’ll not die.  What are you doing here?”

“Something stupid.”  Jaime stood up, looked around frantically.  “Where’s Cersei?”

Tyrion shook his head.  

“We have to stop her!  Cersei?” Jaime called, pushing himself to his feet, and pulling Tyron up with him. “Cersei!”

Tyrion blinked, trying to focus. His ears were still ringing. He could hear voices around him.  His brother’s and his sister’s, indistinct.  They were arguing.  Then a single, desperate line was audible.  

“Don’t be bloody idiot, come with me _now_ ," Jaime’s voice, harsh and commanding.  

More struggling, arguing.  A woman’s cry.  Jaime’s cursing. Then Cersei, imperious and angry, but slurred, slightly off.

“Stop him following me!” 

Tyrion’s heart went cold as he caught sight of the hulking form of Gregor Clegane through the dust.  He heard a scuffling sound. Jaime stumbled before him, then dove out of the way of something. A crunching sound followed.  Tyrion was immediately terrified that it was the sound of Gregor’s blade connecting with his brother’s thick skull, but then he heard Jaime swear. _He’s alright._ Tyrion chanced a look up, and saw the huge form of the Mountain, and then the much smaller one of his brother, sword in hand, dodging desperately.

_Fuck.  Fuck. Fuck._

Tyrion crawled across the floor, dodging the piles of refuse, some of it alight. He was injured, he could feel it in his chest and head.  Probably burned too, although he was less aware of that. His jacket was falling off him. 

He heard the screams of the people in the courtyard below, crashing sounds.  

_Oh perfect.  The building is falling._

Jaime rushed past, half pulled him to his feet and pushed him at the door. 

“Run!” he ordered.

Tyrion stared behind at the Mountain, the massive figure advancing on his brother. 

“Jaime, I …”

“I can’t protect you too, get the fuck out of here!  And whatever Cersei is doing, stop her!”

There was another crash, the sound of wood splintering, Jaime was yelling something. Was it “save her?”  If so, Jaime was as crazy as their sister. 

Tyrion threw a final look in the direction of his brother, and fled down the stairs after Cersei. 

 

**SANDOR**

**The Red Keep**

 

The fucking Red Keep.  He was going to die in the fucking Red Keep.

Sandor Clegane had always hated this place, with its pretension and lies and his memories of drunk and lecherous Robert and that fucking cunt Joffrey. If he wasn’t climbing a staircase through it while a dragon spewed fire at it, he’d enjoy watching the fucking thing fall down around him. 

The building shuddered, and he momentarily leaned against the wall for balance. There was an acrid smell in the air. Something was burning. _Lots_   _of things, dickhead._ His stomach churned, and he felt as if fear itself were attempting to claw its way out of his chest.  He girded himself and headed upwards. _Toward the bloody dragon._

He was halfway up when a small, slender figure, red robed, limped down the stairs past him.  She smelt of char, too. She paused, and looked at him in fear, but he barely spared her a glance.  He had no interest in killing women, whoever they were. His mission was more personal. He let her pass. She left bloody footprints on the steps.

He put his foot on the next step, then the next.  He was fucking exhausted. He’d been awake for over a day, was sore, raw and surviving on adrenaline. _But not for much longer_.  The tower was coming down, he knew that, and he would go with it.  But not alone. No, the shadow that had stalked his life, and destroyed it, was coming down with him.

“Hound!”  

Sandor jerked his eyes back up the staircase, and saw yet another person on them. He rolled his eyes.  _What is this, a bloody market square?_

“Imp,” he spat out in a kind of greeting. 

Tyrion was injured too, burnt, limping.  Sandor looked down at him disdainfully. Tyrion, however, looked as delighted as anyone had ever been to see him.

“Your brother is up there,” the dwarf gasped. “With mine.”

 _Help him,_ was the silent plea.

Sandor snorted. “As if I care about your brother, other than to hope he stays alive long enough to hold the interest of mine”.  But as some kind of attempt at appeasement, or maybe just because he regretted not taking the opportunity to kill the queen himself, or perhaps just because he was worried about bloody Arya, he indicated down the stairs. “Your bitch sister went that way.”

Sandor could feel Tyrion’s shocked eyes on him, as he stalked further upward. _No time to chat._

Near the landing to the family apartments, Sandor could hear the sound of sword on sword. He continued up until he emerged into Cersei’s solar, or what was left of it.  Jaime Lannister and Gregor were there, yes, but it wasn’t a fight, not really. The kingslayer dodged and weaved like a fucking court dancer, throwing stuff at his foe, but he was limping, fading, blocking weakly, mainly just trying to avoid any fatal blow.  He didn’t stand a chance. 

Sandor has been honest in his reply to Tyrion.  He didn’t really care about Lannister, any more than he cared about the Imp or Cersei or anyone else in this fucking castle, except Arya, and fuck knows where she got to. _Hopefully anywhere but the castle._

And his brother. Oh, he cared about his brother. Cared to ensure he ended him.

Lannister had got himself cornered, and Gregor’s massive form was looming over him, sword raised.  The kingslayer had both his blade and his stupid golden hand held up defensively, but there was no prospect of blocking the massive blow that was to come.  Sandor contemplated, for a brief second, just watching the blade fall, then slaying his brother when he was off balance. But a contrary flash of conscience came, unwanted but insistent.  

 _Oh fuck it, that’s Tarth’s man._   _She’ll geld me if I let him die._  

He drove his blade into his brother’s upright back.

The Mountain staggered and pulled away from the blade, but he didn’t fall. His blade did, but Lannister, incredibly, managed to block this weaker slash with sword and hand.  Something crunched, perhaps the remaining part of his arm, but he was able to roll away with a groan. 

“Hello brother,"   Sandor sneered grinning with delight as the figure of the Mountain turned toward him.  "Yeah, that's right. Try me, you bastard!” 

Gregor obliged, brought his blade around in a wide arc.  Sandor parried it easily, but the force of the blow sent sparks of pain down his arm.  His strength was inhuman. 

Lannister pushed himself to his feet.  

"Get outta here, kingslayer," Sandor yelled.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”  Jaime groaned in reply, leaning heavily against the wall. “Your brother has been in the bloody way.”

Gregor, hearing Jaime behind him, moved slightly to block his path.

"He still is!"

The Hound blocked another blow, and another, but they were coming impossibly hard and fast.  

“You should have just killed the cunt!”

“I tried that too! He just keeps getting up!”

Lannister collapsed back against the wall, an easy target, but other than blocking his way, Ser Gregor was ignoring him.  Perhaps some distant, long lost part of _whatever_ he now was still recognised his little brother.  Or maybe he just realised the injured Lannister wasn’t going anywhere. 

The tower shook again, and this time Sandor saw the massive form of the dragon fly by outside the window. _It could breathe fire at any time._ The urge to freeze, or to flee, was upon him, but even his fear of flame was secondary to his compulsion to rid the world - no, himself - of this monster.

Another massive blow, but this time he barely blocked it. He was getting tired fast.  Something hit Gregor from behind and he paused to look. Lannister had thrown a rock.  It wasn’t much, but it was enough to buy a few spare seconds, and Sandor fell back several steps to catch a breath.  His brother turned his attention back to him almost instantly.  His muscles bunched. Sandor raised his blade, hoping to parry the inevitable charge.  Gregor bull rushed him. 

And then the ceiling fell.  Or a part of it. Right on top of Ser Gregor.  He went down beneath the masonry.

The room fell silent of the sounds of fighting. 

Sandor and Jaime exchanged a long glance, and they both looked down at the rubble that lay right where Ser Gregor had just stood.

Sandor swore, bellowed his frustration, and advanced toward it. 

“Forget him!”  Jaime yelled at him. “Clegane, forget it.  Forget him.  There are bigger problems.”  

Jaime pushed himself off the wall.  “We’ve gotta get to the bell tower, ring the bells, stop the combat before there is nothing left of Kings Landing.”

Sandor gaped at him.  "Are you fucking insane, with that thing out there spewing flames?"

Jaime shook his head, limped toward the door.  “Everyone is dying. I have to stop this madness.  But, I might need your help. To...” he groaned, his legs shook. “to walk.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Forget about the fucking bells, Lannister.  The only way to stop this shit is to do something about your bitch sister…”

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment, as if being hit with something hard.  He nodded. “Where is she?”

“I saw her coming up.  Your brother too. He was following her down."  

Sandor watched Lannister gaze uneasily between the two routes, up and down. The choice didn’t seem that hard to Sandor.  The man could barely stand, let alone climb up any bloody stairs.

In the comparative quiet of the solar, Sandor suddenly became aware the cries and screams from the people in the courtyard below and in the city outside. The clashing of steel on steel.  Somewhere, a dragon roared and fire thundered.  The keep shook again. 

_Oh fuck it._

"I'll do it," Sandor found himself saying.  "I’ll ring your fucking bells.”

Jaime turn to stare at him, obviously shocked.  They appraised each other for a long moment. 

Then the rubble moved.  They both turned to look at it instead.

“This place is sitting atop wildfire, Clegane. It may go up,” Jaime warned.

“Don’t try and talk me out of it.”

The top of the pile of rubble tumbled off, and two massive arms emerged from the mess.

Jaime nodded. "Good luck".

“Fuck off and kill your sister-lover and we’ll call it even.”

Jaime gave him a final, indecipherable look, and turned toward the stairs leading down.  _Yeah hobble off and fix what you caused._

More rubble fell from the pile, and more of the mammoth shape emerged from under it.

Sandor heaved his sword, and walked over to where his brother was pulling himself free.  He kicked some tiles and bricks out the way to reveal a little of his face.

The Mountain was dragging himself along, his legs were blackened, crushed and useless, sprawled at strange angles.  Yet still he moved, hungrily advancing.  Sandor watched him in disgust.

"Fuck you," he swore. “I should let you burn.”

But instead, he lowered his blade and removed his brother's head. It rolled across the floor, leaving not a drop of blood behind it. 

 

**JORAH**

**Kings Landing - the streets**

Jorah was a veteran of countless battles.  Sieges, battlefields, skirmishes, guard duty, even the fighting pits.  He’d seen plenty of death, and dealt it, but nothing like this.  This was madness, and no doubt intended to be so.

Another building exploded further down the street, green flames hurtling into the sky and onto the street, taking out half the block with it.  The pressure and heat washed over him. Screams soon followed.  Smallfolk fled up the street, many injured, but where could they go?

Somewhere close, a woman screamed, then children.  Jorah looked around desperately.

Then he noticed the boy, sitting on the roof of a neighbouring house.  A raggedly boy, his hair standing on end and his clothing covered in dust. The boy was watching the fire spread with something akin to a grin on his face.

Cold realisation slithered up Jorah’s spine.   _He did this!_

“Hey, you!” he heard himself call.  The boy startled, turned, looked at him.  There was fear in his eyes, but pride and hunger too.

He could not have been more than ten.

Jorah could think of nothing to say, other than “why?”

The boy grinned, gave him a rude sign, and scrambled over the roof, and away.

The scream again. He looked around, saw a house on fire, its doorframe twisted and bent, holding the door closed.  A family trapped in a house, he realised.  He rushed toward it, and met a Lannister soldier on the threshold.  They both stopped, watched each other warily. 

Then Jorah pointed at the door, and said “help me get it open.”

The soldier paused for only a moment, then nodded, sheathed his blade, and added his shoulder to the door.

 

**JAIME**

**Kings Landing -  the Throne Room**

 

He found her, of course, on the Iron Throne. 

She was burned, and badly so.  Her hair standing in singed tuffs, her skin a reddish colour and her nose black.  Her dress was tattered and her singed, one swollen leg showing through a burnt away strip. 

Yet if Cersei was in pain, she did not show it.  She would never show it, and certainly not here in the throne room. 

She smiled when he entered, but there was no mirth or joy in that smile, just pure satisfaction. He’d come, again, and so she’d won. 

“Cersei…” he said softly.  

"Jame," she answered.  Her tone was pleasant, unconcerned, almost as if she were greeting him for lunch. 

She settled back in the chair, and looked at him, raised one eyebrow, and waited.  

She had blood on her lips and between her teeth. 

He felt sick.

He limped toward her.  His right arm was broken, bones were grinding in his foot and there was something wrong with his leg.  His ribs were on fire. 

“You escaped the Mountain,” she observed, scrutinising him, a slightly sorry look on her.   “I didn’t want him to harm you, just to keep you safe.”

“Then you should have given him more specific instructions.”

She shrugged carelessly.  “I was short on time.”

It was impossible to tell if the look of mild sympathy was real.  She’d always despised weakness, had no time for injuries or illness, loathed his maimed hand.

It hurt him that it had come to this.  Forty years, three children - four, for a while.  He’d loved her for most of his life, loved her _more_ than his life.  He had once thought he would do anything for her.  But that was before he had realised she would do literally anything at all to stay on that bloody throne. 

How had he been so blind?

 _I wasn't.  I loved Cersei, and that is not Cersei_ , _not anymore,_ he tried to tell himself.  But he couldn't quite believe it. “ _You always knew what she was, and you loved her anyway”,_ Tyrion had told him. And he supposed that was true.  

 _I still love her,_ he thought desperately.  _I love her and I hate her and_ _I don’t know how to stop._

He felt sick.  He _was_ sick.  Twisted and tainted.  He swallowed against the rising nausea.  He clasped his hand around Widow's wail, and put his foot on the first step of the dais. 

Suddenly, it all so terrifyingly familiar.  He saw Aerys, seated before him. Laughing.  He saw himself approaching, sword in hand -  _my missing hand_ \- walking up these very steps.  He saw himself plunge the blade into the Mad King’s back. 

It seemed like it was a thousand years ago. 

It seemed like it was yesterday. 

He had been younger and stronger then, dressed in plate and filled with fury and righteousness. So certain that he was doing the right thing. Now he wore coarse leather, held his blade weakly in his left hand, and limped up the stairs, uncertain as to anything, his mind a roiling mass of confusion and regret.  

_No, that's not true.  There is one thing I am certain of._

_Brienne._

She would be waiting for him, if he survived this, of that he was certain. 

Not for the first time, he wondered what Brienne saw in him.   _There must be something to see_.  He could not disappoint her. He would not.

Cersei watched him defiantly, a slight smile playing on her lips.  

Does she think this a lark?  His hand tightened further, painfully on his blade and his missing fingers flexed. 

“Go on, brother, strike me down.  Kill a queen to add to your king. But have the courage to look me in the eye, and stab me in the front."

Yes, he owed her that.  He tried.  Tried to look through the burns and the blood.  Her green eyes were still fierce, still beautiful, but where once they had been filled with mischief and intelligence, they now flashed with malice and anger and a subtle but undeniable madness. He had to look away. 

Cersei actually laughed. The sound made his skin crawled.

A dark shadow passed overhead, blocking out sky through the gaps in the throne room’s ravaged roof. Huge and black. _Drogon._ Unbidden, Jaime’s mind went to his men dying on the Goldroad, screaming and burning.  Remembered sounds echoed between his ears. 

 _Burn them all._   The Targaryan war cry.  The dragon had done just that. 

Something fell and crashed from Meaghor’s Hold - loud enough that it could have been a bloody tower.  He jumped. The ground rumbled and shook. The whole place was coming down.  He couldn't say he was sorry about it.

He took another step and his feet squelched in something.  Something that smelled acrid and _off._ He knew immediately what it was.  _Wildfire._

Cersei held up an elegant hand.  Clutched in it was a candle. A lit candle. 

"Kill me, even approach me, and I drop this. You'll die."

Her voice was cold and calm, and Jaime had no doubt she meant it.  A ripple of fear coursed through him, but not because of the candle. Because of Cersei.  _She is gone_ , he told himself, a final, belated realisation.  _Truly, undoubtedly gone._

"You think I care about dying, Cersei? I wouldn’t have come if I cared about that."

"No, you’d be back north with that monstrous cow you’re fucking.”  

Jaime felt his chest clench and his blood run cold. _She knew._ If she knew, Brienne would never be safe. His face must have betrayed him, because she went on. 

“Yes, I know about the Lady of Tarth.  The kingslayer’s whore. Didn’t I tell you that you couldn’t hide anything from me?"

"I didn't try to hide it Cersei.” 

"Yet, you thought I would take your offer, knowing as I did about _her_." 

He took another step.

"Do you love her?" Cersei asked. 

He could lie, but she'd know.  She always knew.

"Yes," he said evenly. 

Cersei flinched. 

Jaime concentrated on keeping his voice even, placating, as if approaching a terrified puppy.  One with poisoned teeth. 

“But I still love you Cersei, I wasn't lying about that.  I came back to you knowing what you were, knowing what you had done. I came back despite being finally _happy,_ without you.  Happier than I have ever been. I was prepared to give that up, give everything up, to save you. I could have, if you'd have let me.”  He paused, swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I still don’t want you to die.”

She blinked, barely moved, but for a moment Jaime was sure he saw the old Cersei behind the twisted mask.  The girl with the wicked sense of humour.  The woman who had come to him in peasant garb, beautiful and intoxicating.  The fierce mother lion, protecting her cubs.  But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that cold, determined stare, that self assured smirk. 

“One more step and I will die,” she warned.  And then she cast her eyes to the side. “And so will he.”

 _He?_ Jaime spared a glance in the same direction. _Oh fuck._ Tyrion lay behind the throne, several feet away from Cersei, a wound on his head, his chest covered in blood.  Jaime took a step in Tyrion's direction, but Cersei raised her hand. 

“Did you know he tried to strangle me?” She _scoffed_ , indignant to the last. “Like he did that whore of his?  _Me_?”

Jaime’s vision spun.  He took a deep breath, tried to get control of the seething anger and agony within him. _If she has killed him …_ But she hadn’t _._  Tyrion stirred, nodded slowly.  A slight move, but enough. _Alive.  If only just._

Fucking hell. 

Cersei’s voice was calm, but undeniably gleeful as she went on.  “I was prepared.  I had been _warned_.  Warned about the deaths of our children. About the coming of the dragon queen who would tear me down.I was so scared of her, but she helped me, she saved me.”

Jaime stared at Cersei blankly. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

This was beyond him.  _She’s mad_.   _Mad_ _and unpredictable and dangerous and about to kill us all._

He closed the distance between them. _It will not end until she does,_ he remembered the Hound saying.

Sandor was right.  He had to end it.  _Had to._

But he didn’t know if he could.

He tried a final compromise. “Blow the candle out, get off the fucking throne, and come with me.  Now."

“No.”

Above the throne room there was another rush of wind.  The dragon, again, much closer now, spiraling down toward them.  

“She’s coming for me,” Cersei said, with a satisfied smirk.  “Coming _to_ me.  To take my throne.  But she'll fail.”

Tyrion lifted his head, ever so slightly, and gave Jaime a desperate look. _Stop her,_ he was pleading.

_If only I could..._

Jaime looked at Cersei, at the candle.  How much wildfire would destroy the throne room?  Was there enough here? Too much? He had no idea. He glanced at the candle.   _If I kill her, I will kill us all, including Tyrion._ Of that, at least, he was certain.  He knew they were both prepared to pay that price.  It would even be poetic, Tywin’s three children, dead in the throne room. _And I would be kingslayer, queenslayer and kinslayer too._

But what if he killed everyone else in the Keep.  The city?  Would that matter?  The war would be over.

_The city would be ashes, and the last twenty years will have been for nothing._

Jaime's fingers flt wet with sweat and his left hand was shaking.  He took another step up the dais, and another. Two more to go. Cersei watched him passively, displaying little interest. 

_Do it, do it, do it._

He swallowed, as he came level with his queen.

_I can. I must._

He raised his sword.

Outside, something cracked and broke.  _The dragon._ It was landing. 

The few remaining panes of glass fell from the throne room’s windows, shattering in a cacophony of twinkling and crashing. 

He started, jumped, and Tyrion jerked.  But Cersei barely flinched. 

Then new voice pierced the air.  

“Your Grace.” 

Jaime looked up.  _Qyburn._

Qyburn, who had always stayed remarkably loyal.  The one other person his sister actually trusted.  The obsequious little man was making his way toward her, speaking calmly and gently.

The delight in his sister’s eyes was undeniable. 

“Qyburn…” she whispered.  

“Your Grace, please, put the candle away.”

She looked up at him and smiled. And shook her head.

"Never."

 

**JON/AEGON**

**Outside the Red Keep**

The latest batch of rescued smallfolk tumbled from Rhaegel’s back, falling, cursing, some possibly breaking bones.  But he had no time for gentleness and care, not while the city died, and its people along with it. He urged Rhaegel back into the air.

The explosions seemed to have stopped, thank whatever Gods were listening, but fires burned and the streets were a nightmare come to life. Dothraki and northmen on one side, beleaguered Lannister soldiers on another.  Pockets of fighting in some places, eerie silence in others, where combatants were hunkered down behind makeshift barricades, inside ruined homes, and men of all colours working together to save smallfolk in still more. 

The Keep was burning, and Dany was circling it on Drogon.  The dragon was using teeth and claw to tear it apart, brick by brick, and it was tumbling. 

But the gates to it were still locked, the smallfolk crowded behind them. 

Jon contemplated what to do.  He had already discarded the option of stopping Dany.  She wouldn't listen, and maybe she wasn't even wrong. Cersei was in there, somewhere.   _T_ _his is our only chance anyway._ He had to save them some other way.

In pockets of the city, fighting still raged. It could spread at any time. If he opened the gates, the trapped smallfolk would be released them onto streets with rampaging Dothraki and random fires.

But if he left them they may well be crushed.

He took the option that gave them the best chance. 

Jon guided Rhaegel down, and the dragon used his tail to smash open the gate. 

“Out,” he screamed to the smallfolk. He doubted they could hear it, but it did not matter.  They got the message, and rushed through the gate, fleeing.

 

**SANDOR**

**The Bell Tower - The Red Keep**

Sandor couldn’t believe he’d been talked into this fucking task.  Ringing the bells to surrender. What a joke. When had ringing the bells ever meant surrender, anyway?  Last time he heard, it meant they were under attack. Or something. Fuck it, he’d never even paid attention. 

The imp undoubtedly had something to do with this.  Changing things up for the hell of it, that’s what he did.  Fucking things up, too. The imp fucked him in the arse, and then ran downstairs, leaving Sandor had with the upstairs option.  Up the stairs. Closer to the cunt dragon and the bloody fire and his likely fucking death. 

Sandor concentrated on taking another step, and another, and another. _I’m going to die here_ , he thought morosely. _Die with a clean blade and fucking bell rope in my hand._

It was not how he would have chosen to go. 

As he neared the top, the smoke became thicker.  Black and dense, and he could hardly see. He coughed and choked and forced himself to take another step, and another.  He couldn’t see shit, but it was only a staircase and it only went up so why does that matter?

The heat increased with the height, until he was dipping with sweat and his hair clung to his face.  His scars itched. The walls themselves were hot. The tower was on fire. 

As Sandor climbed higher, he began to smell burning.  Humans, animals, timber and probably even stone. Agonised screams rose from the city.  His stomach churned. He felt cold and shaky. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and the blood pumping between his ears.  Panic. Fear.

 _Run, run, run_ , his brain told him.

 _Fuck off,_  he told it right back. 

Finally, he emerged from the stone chairs onto a wooden landing, part of the scaffolding surrounding the bell. It hung a floor or so above, a rope dangling down.  Flames licked at the walls, the wooden balustrades, the floor above. The rope was already black in parts. Soon it would be burning. 

The urge to run was almost overwhelming, consuming.  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t walk through the flames. 

The dark cloud of fear rose within him, threatened to consume him. 

The tower shuddered and shook, and part of the wooden staircase collapsed.  It was a fucking long drop down.

Sandor closed his eyes. Concentrated on the cries from the city.  The sound of swords clashing. He thought of Ray, and his flock, and the hills and forests of the Vale. He could not save them, then.  He thought of Sansa, and her blue eyes that had looked at him with pride and sadness. He could not save her, either. He thought of Arya. She was no doubt doing something insanely fucking stupid below right now.  She’d kill him, if he tried to save her.

But he could save Kings Landing.

_Fuck the fire._

With a cry of pain and determination, Sandor Clegane stepped through the flames and grabbed the rope and rang the bloody bell. 

The sound, clear and sweet, rang out across the city. 

He pulled it once more, just for good measure.

And then he turned and fled. 

He was damned if he was going to die in the flames. 

 

  **JON**

**Outside the Red Keep**

The sound of a bell filled the air.  Deep and sweet and possibly the most beautiful sound Jon had ever heard.

He looked up - the massive bell in the keep’s tower was sounding.  Soon another joined it, and another. 

_Surrender._

Joy and relief filled him, and he laid a hand on Rhaegel’s neck affectionately.  They had done it.

He urged the dragon into the air.  He looked up, searching for Dany, then down, looking his wife and his child. He found her.  Drogon was circling the Keep.  

He tried to catch her eyes, but they were fixed elsewhere.  

He followed her gaze.  The throne room.

 _No,_  he thought.  _No, no, no._

She was going to Cersei.

 

   

**ARYA**

**The Throne Room - The Red Keep**

The Throne Room, or what was left of it, was a scene of devastation.  The walls had collapsed in parts, the roof was nearly gone. The air was heavy with the scent of burning flesh, and something else sharp and acidic.  

Arya _looked_ , as she had been taught.  Noticed the small details. Cersei was holding a lit candle.  At the floor at her feet was a pool of something green. Tyrion lay some way off. Jaime stood before her, blade in hand, seemingly frozen as he was about to strike.  His hand was shaking. 

Something roared above them, and Arya looked up.  Above her, Drogon soared lazily, circling down. _The dragon queen was coming, and Cersei was going to burn._

There was a fair chance every person here was going to burn.  Cersei, Jaime, Tyrion, and _her._

 _Run_ , Arya’s inner wolf told her.  _This is not your pack, not your concern.  You don’t care for any of these people, let them die.  Let them kill each other._

But no, she had come here with a purpose.  Her one remaining purpose. Then she would be done, and she could rest.

She would kill the queen. She would make her pay. _Fuck Daenerys if she thinks to take it from me._

Arya drew her blade carefully as she advanced.  The blade that had helped kill the night king. She considered carefully what to do with it.  She could throw it, kill Cersei where she sat, watch as that sneering grin became a rictus a horror.  _That_ would at least be satisfying. But Cersei would drop the candle and everything would go up and Arya wasn’t quite as keen on that option.  Not unless she could be sure she wasn’t in the way.   

Another roar, this one coupled with a rush of wind from above.  Outside, the dragon swooped low. It was coming.

Jaime looked terrified and stricken. 

Cersei looked...what? Pleased?

Then realisation formed in her mind.  _Cersei is setting a trap._

Arya crept toward the dais.  She was close now, so close.  

Tyrion saw her.  She raised a finger.  _Quiet._ Tyrion looked at her in bewildered shock. 

“Your grace…”

Cersei looked up.  Saw who Arya was hoping she would. “Qyburn…”  

There was joy in her face, relief at seeing her friend, the one person she believed had never betrayed her.  _Oh, if only she knew._

“Your Grace, please, put the candle away.”

"Never."

That was all the invitation Arya needed.

No longer needing to hide, Arya covered the remaining feet with a leap.  Effortlessly, she slammed the knife into Cersei’s hand, twisting as she did, slamming the queen’s flesh against the arm of the throne, then wrenching her knife between two iron blades of the chair.

The queen was pinned. 

Cersei screamed in anger and outrage and dropped the candle. It rolled across the arm of the throne, but stayed alight.  Jaime grabbed at it, but his right arm was useless, and the candle toppled from the throne. 

Before it could reach the ground, Arya lurched for it, catching it perfectly.  She blew, and extinguished the flame. 

Jaime stared at her blankly for half a second.  Caught between Cersei and her attacker, his instinct was to protect her, but something stayed his hand.  

It took a tense, dangerous moment for Arya to remember.  She reached up and pulled off the mask she’d made from Qyburn’s face. It had been hurriedly prepared, and came away with a splatter of mucus and blood.  

Tyrion retched. 

Jaime staggered back. “Arya?  What the fuck…”

Cersei gasped, half screamed, but recovered quickly. 

There was fear in the queen's eyes now.  So gratifying.  Cersei tried to full her hand away, then yelped in pain.

Arya grinned. 

“Remember me?” she asked. “I’m Ned Stark’s daughter.”

Cersei's face betrayed more fear, but only for a moment, before she pulled down that smirking facade.  Her control was incredible. Arya almost admired her.

Cersei rolled her eyes, voice harsh. “Why would I care?” 

“Because I'm here to kill you.”

Cersei scoffed. Tugged again at her hand.  “Without a knife?  Jaime, help me!”

It was as if time stood still. Jaime was paralyzed, staring at Cersei.  Arya reached to pull out another knife, to finish it, watching Jaime carefully, almost daring him to attack her.  

"You dropped the candle..." he said, quietly.

And then there was a rush of wind from the roof of the throne room, and Arya and Jaime both staggered under the force of it, and Arya was thrown back, onto her knees.

More of the roof fell, a piece landing feet from Cersei, another even closer to Tyrion. 

“Help me!”  Cersei cried.

“Jaime…” Tyrion gasped, almost simultaneously. 

Arya struggled to her feet.  _The queen!_ She looked back to the throne.  The kingslayer stared from Cersei to Tyrion.  The idiot looked lost as to what to do. Sa _ve her, kill her, save his brother._ _Make up your fucking mind._ Then, more plaster fell, and Jaime appeared to make his decision. He threw himself on top of Tyrion. 

Cersei was undefended. This was her opportunity.

_Mine, mine, mine._

Above them, Drogon roared.  The building shuddered again. 

The dragon had landed. 

Arya got to her feet, and cautiously approached Cersei, almost expecting a trick. The queen was tugging at the blade, trying to free herself, but it appeared to be stuck.  To her side, Jaime was struggling to pick Tyrion up, lift him over his shoulder, but he was not getting purchase with his broken arm and injured leg and broken ribs. 

Jaime looked up and met her eyes. “Arya, help me!”

Arya narrowed her eyes. _Is he tricking me?_   _Getting me away from Cersei._

She looked at Cersei, at Tyrion.

Then Drogon’s massive head appeared over the ruined wall.  Smoke rose from between his teeth.

Arya didn’t hesitate, she rushed over to Jaime and pushed herself under Tyrion’s other arm, helping lift him onto Jaime’s shoulder and back. The kingslayer stood, shakily, groaning and swaying, but he stayed upright.  He turned to Cersei, sword in hand. Arya had no idea if he wanted to kill her or save her.

A long moment seemed to pass between the twins.

Then Cersei looked at him, calmly, and smiled softly. "Jaime, go." 

The wall behind them crumbled beneath Drogon's feet.

For once in her life, absolutely the only fucking time, Arya agreed with Cersei.  She pushed Jaime in the back. “Go, go, go…”

The massive claws landed on the tiles. 

Jaime grasped Tyrion harder and ran.

They didn’t look back. 

 

**CERSEI**

**The Throne Room - the Red Keep**

 

Jaime was gone.  Tyrion was gone. Her children, her father, even the baby.  They were all gone. And she was pinned to the throne, with a dragon looming over her.

Death seemed imminent.  She wasn't afraid, although she wondered if it would hurt. 

But the flames didn’t come.

Cersei opened her eyes, and stared at with abstract fascination at the blade that held her hand.  Red blood oozed through the edges where metal touched skin. Even that did not hurt as it should.  The irritation of not being able to raise her hand was the greater agony. Calmly, aware that she was being watched, she reached over, and grabbed the knife with her left hand and pulled.  Pulled harder than she ever had before.  _Now_ there was pain, a sharp, terrible sensation, and she screamed her fury.  The knife came free with a spurt of blood. _Lannister crimson._ It was beautiful.  Red and thick and rich. It matched her dress.

She threw the blade to the ground.  She was losing blood, but she would not show weakness.  She looked up at her rival queen. 

The dragon loomed over the shattered wall, its massive head and red eyes fixing her with a malevolent curiosity. Daenerys sat atop it, tiny and pale.  _She looks like Rhaeger_ , Cersei thought absently, but shorter, paler, skinny. 

_She is younger than me,_ Cersei thought, _but is she more beautiful?_  

 _No_. _She’s just a girl, and not that pretty._ _Not even as beautiful as Rhaeger._

This was not the queen who would dispose her. 

Cersei fixed the younger woman with a cold, hard stare. 

"It that thing breathes fire on me, the entire throne melts,"  she said calmly.

Danearys  fixed her with wide, violet eyes. “I can make another throne."

"Not another Iron Throne.  Not like this."

"No.  I'll design a more practical one."

Cersei shrugged. “You will not be alive to sit on it.”

Daenerys eyes spanned the room, seeking some confirmation of the threat. Violet eyes.  _Mad, like her father._  “Wildfire,” she observed, calmly. "Your brother was right."

Cersei rolled her eyes.  Did this child think to hurt her with her brother's betrayal? She was much to late for that.

The girl began to climb off the dragon, sliding down its scales as if slithering out of bed. _A serpent,_ Cersei thought.  _Where I am a lion._

“How do you think this ends, Cersei?” the dragon girl asked.  She sounded preternaturally calm, and Cersei was momentarily reminded of Margaery Tyrell, with her snide grins and passive aggression.  _But this one has fangs._  “Do you think that such threats will make us turn around and leave?"

Cersei raised an eyebrow. “Yes. That is exactly what I think. I think you lack the stomach to do what must be done.  There are wildfire caches throughout this keep, on every layer. Your dragon breathes, and this keep will catch on fire, and that fire will spread."

Dany smiled at her serenely.  “We’ve taken care of that.”

A slither of doubt moved up Cersei’s spine.  _No_.  Her eyes fell to Qyburn’s face, discarded in a pool of fluid on the floor. 

“Even if you have, there is wildfire here, beneath my feet and yours.  Light it, and we destroy each other.”

“Do we?” 

"It's wildfire you stupid child.  Of course we die if you light it."

"There is no 'we',"  Dany smiled, broad and wide.

Cersei narrowed her eyes.  Uncertain.  The little whore was making no sense. 

"You see, I am Danearys Targaryan, the unburned. And I have a complex relationship with fire."

_She is quite mad, like her father. But this one, I think, will choose life. Or power._

Cersei raised her chin and looked at Dany defiantly. “Burn me, and you will never sit on this throne,”

Dany shrugged. 

"There are more important things.  _Dracarys._ "

Draogon breathed.  Rhaegel roared. The throne room exploded. 

And Cersei's world turned to ash and dust.


End file.
